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THE EVANSTON POETS 



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STl. 



Class _i 

Book ElL^ 



The Evanston Poets 



COMPILED BY 

WII.I.IAM C. I.EVERE 




1903 
WILLIAM S. LORD 

Evanston 



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Jh 330 
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to my friend 
Henry Ai^fred Ernest Chandi^er. 



This Edition of the Evanston Poets 
Consists of Three Hundred and 
Ten Copies^ of which this 
is I^umber ^ /• 



INTRODUCTION. 



In all the world there is no place quite 
like Evanston. It has sometimes been 
called a New England town, set down in 
the West, but while it has the classic 
atmosphere of the best of the centers of 
the East, it has more^ The broad, free 
liberty of the West obtains, and united with 
the culture of the East makes for a splendid 
intellectual freedom. 

Every form of art has its prophet here 
and none in a greater degree than that wooed 
by the weavers of melody. Among them 
all there may not be one who sings for all 
time, but there are many whose graceful 
lines will live long to inspire and charm the 
lovers of true and tender verse. 

It has been a delight to gather these songs 



of my talented townsmen and give them per- 
manent form. This is but a poor monu- 
ment to their work, and yet one, I venture, 
that will be proudly treasured by all who 
joy in things that make life worth living. 

WlLI^IAM C. lyEVERE. 
February 12, 1903. 



CONTENTS. 



For Some One, 

8. B. Kiser 9 

Don't Worry Dear, 

Samuel Merwin 10 

If I Should Wake. 

Emily Huntington Miller 11 

The Poem, 

Henry B. Merwin 12 

When Dorothy Plays Whist, 

Kathleen Dodge 13 

Fear, 

Martha Foote Crow 14 

On Stormy Nights, 

H. E. Russell 16 

A Dreamer of Dreams, 

A. W. Barnlund 16 

"Ghoses," 

James D. Corrothers 17 

The Difference, 

Henry K. Webster 18 

The Certain Victory, 

S. E. Kiser 19 

The Song of the Engine, 

E. S. Brandt 20 

The Waltz 

Ruth Woodley, 23 

Slumber Song, 

Maud Lyons 34 

Her World, 

Emily Huntington Miller JBS 



The Man in the Moon, 

Helen M. Jewell . 38 

Suppose, 

William S. Lord 80 

Since Grandma Went Away, 

Alma Carlson 83 

The Little Missionaries, 

Kate Wisner McClusky 33 

My Paperweight, 

James Taft Hatfield S6 

"Teddy." 

A. W. Campbell 36 

When Janice Smilea, 

Mary Cecelia Strickler 37 

Eeats, 

Maud Lyons 38 

A Man, 

Henry A. Delano 30 

There Go the Ships, 

Elizabeth E. Marcy 40 

Recompense, 

WilUam S. Lord 41 

A Trip to Far Away Land, 

George Craig Stewart 42 

Dante's Tomb, 

Mary Harriot Norris 44 

A Smoking Car at Night, 

W. Herbert Blake 45 

What's Gwin to Come O Me? 

H. B. Gough 46 

Dorria and Her Wheel, 

Lillian Gertrude Cobleigh 4T 

My Mother, 

P. L. McKinnie 49 

The Little Earth Angel, 

Elizabeth Harbert 50 

At the Junior Promenade, 

Carey Culbertson 52 






The Little One/ 

Jessie B. Cole 63 

By and By, 

Percy E. Thomas 54 

The Aspirations of Six Little Cocoon3, 

Boynton Bess Harbert 56 

Storms of the Night, 

O. L. Hall 58 

Baby's Dream, 

Ethel Goodrich 60 

Halloween, 

C. H. Haile 61 

Tag, 

Grace D. Mercer 63 

A River Scene, 

Helen Clark Balmer 63 

The Fish that Got Away, 

Ethel M. Bates 66 

Violets In a City Street, 

W. Herbert Blake 67 

The Puritan Sermon, 

Abbie F. Williams . 68 

The Ever Faithful, 

S. E. Kiser 70 

A Moonlight Fantasy, 

Sam T. Clover 71 

Byron, 

George Cater 73 

The Fairest Gift 

S. E. Kiser 74 

The Wild Aster, 

Anna Gordon 75 

Mother Goose, 

William 8. Lord 76 

Encouragement, 

Grace Holmes 78 

Belief, 

Frank H. Edwards 79 



A Primordial Wooing, 

H. E. Bu ssell 80 

The Castle on the Rhine, 

Elizabeth E. Marcy 83 

Lullaby, 

Kate Wisner McClusky 85 

The First Robin. 

C. G. Sabin 86 

rr esponsibility, 

S. E. Kiser 88 

The Vale ntine Tart, 

Rogerta Dickinson 90 

The Wee Clogs, 

A. S. Alexander 92 

The Evening Call, 

Mott Mitchell 94 

One World Enough 

S. E. Kiser 96 

Versificatio Latina, 

Ben. L. McFadden 97 

The Land of the Ought to Be, 

Gaylord S. Wilcox 98 

To a Lass, 

Elizabeth Bragdon 99 

The Angel of Time, 

HasseEnwall 100 

An Obsolete Proverb, 

Florence M. Longley 101 

The Outdoor Girl, 

W.H. Ballou 102 

The Song of the Lark. 

Ada M. Griggs 104 

OUver Marcy, 

Milton S. Terry 106 

Love's Lullaby, 

Harold B. Shinn 108 

Silas, 

Charles Dickens 109 



Over the Hills and Far Away, 

Alice Ormes .110 

A Complaint, 

J. L. Brown Ill 

A Laugh in Church, 

Emily Huntington Miller . - ... 112 

The Coming of the Ship, 

S. E. Kiser 114 

Sunshine, 

Eva B. Froula 115 

The Kodak, 

James Potter 116 

A Tour De Force, 

Harriott B. Ely . 117 

A Forest Picture, 

Gertrude E. Chappel 120 

Ode to Grant, 

E. S. Taylor ........ 121 

Knowledge, 

Isahel Fowler ..;.... 123 

A Summer Evening in Arcady, 

Barry Gilbert 124 

When Annie Plays the Mandolin , 

Richard Cecil Rogers 126 

The Good Samaritan, 

Charles W. Pearson ...... 127 

The Breath of the Morning, 

Angie E. Seahooke 129 

The Dumb Poet, 

Cecil B. Zimmerman 130 

The Yellow Kid's Pet, 

A. S. Alexander ....... 132 

A New Automobile, 

Harry E. Weese 133 

Are All Our Heroes Dead? 

J. Scott Clark 134 

De Mornin' Dove, 

A. G. Terry . . . . . . . 137 



Before and After, 

I. E. Springer 139 

The Daisy, the Four O'clock and the Maiden, 

lallian BajTie 140 

Procrastination, 

Mrs. C. E. C. Winchell 142 

Lake Michigan at Evening, 

Samuel Merwin ....... 144 

Her Blue Shirt Waist, 

Helen Arthur .... . . 145 

Miracle, 

S. B. Kiser ' 148 

Sunbeam and Shadow, 

Hamilton Bishop 147 

To a Morning Glory, 

J. C. Nicholson 148 

An Old Oak, 

Frances E. Willard 149 

Frances B. Willard, 

Charles W. Pearson 150 

In the Night Time, " 

George Schorb 151 

Evening, 

Grace Shuman . . . . 153 

The Wishers, 

Anna Maude Bowen 153 

Ton Side the Gowden Gate, 

A. 8. Alexander 158 

The Balm of Nature, 

D. Eldon White 158 

To the Lake, 

Seward Gillespie 159 

Tempted, 

Albert D. Saunders, Jr 160 

The Hero Spirit Needed, 

G. D. Cleworth 162 

Svmday Morning. 

B. B. Bobb 163 



Voices from the Shore, 

James P. Rawson 164 

To the Waves, 

J. E. Smiley 165 

The Noble Red Man, 

Katherine MacHarg 166 

In Bridal White. 

Kate L. Cutler 168 

Reverie, 

Jessie Ross Moon 169 

On the Pier, 

JohnJ. Flinn 170 

The Assays There Will All Be True, 

P. L. McKinnie 173 

Eternity, 

James D. Fry 176 

A Day In the Country, 

E. S. Weeden 178 

Lines to the Fringed Gentian, 

Elizabeth E. Marcy 180 

Nemesis, 

lo Barnes 181 

The Childless. 

8. E. Riser 183 

White Winged Messenger. 

Nelly C. Danely ....... 184 

Who Shall Be King, 

Henrietta Graves 185 

Gipsy Lullaby, 

Lulu W. Mitchell 186 

The Complaint of Cophetua, 

Miriam E. Prindle ...... 188 

When My Ship Comes Home, 

Thomas Knott . 190 

Friends, 

Alice C. D. Riley 191 

Hunting Song, 

C.H.Haile ........ 194 



The Bryant Circle, 

Mrs. M. C. Bragdon ...... 196 

Life's Windows, 

Emeline Dagget Harvey 197 

A Meeting, 

S. E.Kiser 198 

Persicas Odi, 

Miriam E. Prindle - 199 

The Bank Robber, 

S. E Kiser .,....,, 200 

Three Reveries, 

James Melville, Jr. 202 

An Irish Lullaby, 

Harold W. Burke 203 

Just for Fun, 

Prank H. West 204 

Three Suits, 

Grace E. Shuman 206 

Skating Song, 

Edna Bronson 207 

To a Colorado Mountain Stream, 

Robert J, Campbell 208 

A Race, 

A. Rarig 209 

The B'loon Man, 

Grace E Shuman 210 

An Old Man's Dream, 

Eugene P. Monahan 211 

8t. Mark's Chimes, 

Andrew J. Brown ...... 213 

To an Opal 

Marion Holmes ....*.. 214 

Wishes, 

Albert F. Dean 215 

Autumn Leaves, 

F. E. Bindhammer 217 

After the Play, 

Harriet W. Durham 218 

Eeats, 

John T. Barker . 220 

A Startling Discovery, 

G. G. Becknall . 221 



A. Mother's Longing, 

Virginia C. Shaffer ••••••• ^33 



THE EVANSTON POETS. 



FOR SOME ONE. 

I wonder why I toil away? 

My heart replies: "For some oneP' 
Why may I never rest a day? 

Because — because of "some one." 
I hear the tramp of many feet, 
I hear the racket of the street, 
But over all I hear the sweet — 

Sweet little laugh of "some one. ^' 

His work is never hard to do 

Who thinks all day of some one ; 
He labors well whose heart is true— 

And fondly true to some one ! 
Men strive for wealth — men bravely gG 
Where danger is for fame, but oh 
The sweetest joy a man may know 
Is just to toil for some one I 

S. E. Kiserc 



DON'T WORRY, D£,AR. 

Don't worry, dear; the bleakest years 

That clog the forward view, 
Each thins to nothing when it nears, 

And we may saunter through. 
The darkest moment never comes, 

It only looms before ; 
The loss of hope is what benumbs, 

Not trouble at the door. 

Don't worry, dear; the clouds are black, 

But with them comes the rain. 
And stifled souls that parch and crack 

May thrill with sap again. 
The burden bear as best we can, 

And there'll be none to bear; 
Hard work has never killed a man. 

But worry did its share. 

Don't worry, dear; don't blanch, don^t yield, 

But dare the years to come ; 
Nor give the enemy the field 

Because he beats his drum. 
These little woes that hover near 

Are nothing, though they gall ; 
We know that life is love, my dear, 

And life and lo^e are all. 

— Samuel Merwin, 



10 



IF I SHOULD WAKE,. 

If I should wake on some soft, silent night, 
When the west wind strayed from the garden's 

bloom 
To creep, with fitful touches, through the room 
And see thee standing in a space of light, 
Making the dusk about thee faintly bright, 
With the old smile, like starlight in the gloom, 
Would my heart leap to claim thee from the tomb, 
Without a doubt to jar its full delight? 
Or should I wait, with longing arms stretched 

wide 
And know, with sudden trembling and amaze. 
Some subtle change in all thy being wrought 
Since thou by death wast touched and glorified? 
Then come not back, lest I should go my ways 
Bereft anew of love's dear, changeless thought. 
— Emily Huntington Miller. ■■ 



11 



THE POE,M. 

He lifted his head, 

And tlie Vision that stood there smiled. 

♦'O Poet," she said, 

I have come at thv bidding ; no child 

Of thy fancy, dead, 

Bat living and breathing as thon. 

Take me now ! ' ' 

His heart, how it burned ! 

But he thought *' 'Tis a dream ; If I move, 

It will vanish, ' ' and yearnsd 

With an infinite yearning, and strove 

With his doubts till she turned — 

She, the Vision — and sorrowful went, 

Ere he knew her intent. 

He leapt to his feet, 

And seized on her undulant veil, 

With its odor as sweet 

As the May time ; and lo ! it did trail 

In his hand, all complete ! 

She had gone ; and he cherished, forlorn^ 

The veil she had worn. 

The veil he upraised. 

He showed it to men and they cried, 

As they noted, amazed, 

The diaphanous wonder, "What pride 

Of invention ! ' ' and praised. 

But sweeter and sadder he grew, 

And replied, ' ' If you knew ! ' ' 

— Henry B . Met win, 

12 



WHEN DOROTHY PLAYS WHIST. 

With a little fluff of frill and puff, 

And turn of dimpled wrist, 
With grave pretense at thoughtfulness, 

Sweet Dorothy plays whist. 

She sorts her cards, asks what is trump, 

"I don't like spades, do you"? 
Thinks whist is such a lovely game 

"And it's so easy, too," 

She talks about the flower show ; 

Then, with demurest grace, 
** Is it my turn? What shall I play?' 

And trumps her partner's ace. 

* ' I saw Fred Hall last night, he said — 

Oh, do I have to lead? 
I wish that you could tell me. Jack. ' 

(I wish I could, indeed. ) 

"Are spades trumps ? why I thought 'twas hearts. " 

(The second trick ehe's missed) 
But "Sweet," I whisper, "Hearts are trumps," 

When Dorothy plays whist. 

— Kathleen Dodge. 



If 



FEAR. 

That most I long for is the power to fling 

Fear from my heart. That consciousness of clear 

Sincerity, be this my charioteer ! 

Not to forget past day's determined sting, 

Nor calmness from oblivion to wring, 

Nor yet to make the worst the best appear ; 

But in disaster and despair to hear 

That from my failures, better things may spring I 

The good things burgeoning from out past wrongs. 
Let me set all these sorrows far above ! 
Leave me, dull dread, my active hand that thralls^ 
And let me fill my empty days with songs, 
Because, fixed on the changeless Heart of love, 
My soul can cry, I cara not what befalls ! 

— Martha Foote Crow. 



14 



ON STORMY NIGHTS. 

On stormy nights the drifting cohorts come, 
Shrieking their battle song upon the gale ; 

They sweep the forests with their distant hum, 
They trail their mantles over hill and vale. 

A tattoo sounds upon the frosty pane, 
And all the air is thickened with the flights 

Of snowflakes, where old winter stalks amain 
On stormy nights. 

On stormy nights my crackling wood fire glows. 

My cozy cricket chirps a merry tune, 
And howling winds and frost and drifting snows 

Bring brighter visions of the skies of June. 
When constant friends bid loneliness depart. 
And books provide a store of old delights, 
We find that summer reigns within the heart 
On stormy nights. 

'—H. Es RusselL 



15 



A DREAME,R OF DREAMS. 

He lived apart from the busy throng, 
A weaver of fancies, a builder of song ; 

But they spurned his name, and oft said it in 
Bcorn : 
* ' He was nought but a dreamer of dreams. ' ' 

But he dreamed his dreams on the vacant page, 

And they cheered the hearts of a cheerless age, 
And they marbled the grave of this youth for- 
lorn ; — 
* ' He was only a dreamer of dreams. ' ' 

— A, W. Barnlund, 



16 



*'GHOSES." 

Dey may be glioses er dey may be none ; 

I takes no chances when I's by myse'f. 
'Twon't nevah sho'ten no man's life to run 

When somethin' tries to skeer 'im mose to deff 1 

De white man's logic may be all-suffioin' 
Foh white folks— in de day time ; but dey's qu'ar 

Thaings seen at night; 'n 'when ma wool's a-risin' 
Dese feet of mine 'is gwine to bu'n de a'r! 

Ain't gwine ter pestah wid no 'vestigation, 
Ma business is to get away from dah 

Fas' as I kin— toward my destination — 
De ghos' ain't bo'n kin ketch me, nuther, sah! 

— James D. Corrothers. 



17 



THE, DIFFERENCE,. 

All in the days of long ago, 
When grandfather a-wooing went, 

He looked a gallant, dashing beau, 
And with his looks was well content 

He rode beside my lady's chair 

With gracious salutation, 
He vowed she was divinely fair, 

And told his adoration. 

But now, alas, poor grandfather 
Would stand but sorry chances 

Of passionately telling her 
His bosom's sweetest fancies. 

For since a wheel my lady rides. 
The bravest, gayest courtier 

Would lose her, if he weren't besides 
A fairly rapid scorcher. 

— Henry K. Webster. 



IS 



THE CE,KTAIN VICTOKY. 

Why should I sit in doubt or fear? If I 
Awake, some morning from that dreaded sleep 

To find myself new-born and lifted high, 
Then will I turn and, looking o'er the deep 

That lies beneath me, shout for glee and throw 
A last good-by at Pain and Fear, below. 

But what if, at the last, no light shall break — 
If this is all — if when I fall asleep 

No angel's voice shall sweetly cry, "Awake," 
And there shall be Nothing, dark and deep — 

Ah well, I shall not care if it be so, 

I'll triumph still, for I shall never know. 

S. E, Kiser, 



19 



THE SONG OF THE, E.NGINE. 

Behold, I am the thunderer ! 
The lightning nerved ! From out the west 
I leap to shake the prairie wind at rest, 
To startle the stream with a groaning whir. 

For I am the god, 

The thunder-shod 

Of the iron trail! 
Before the flash of my flaming eye 
The spirit children of midnight fly ; 
While the hollow silence of the vale 
I burst with a shriek and a moaning wail ; 
Ever a mission to fulfil 
Ever obeying the feverish will ; 
Leaping from town to town that lie, 
Like those in the prairie of the sky, 
Till I seem to lift with my shoulders proud 
The curtain of the distant cloud. 
And last I gently lay my burden down 
Before the gate of her who wears the smoke- 
wreathed crown. 

Today the heart of fire seeks wings or death, 
Even as it dragged me from my gloomy bed. 

And poured within my breast the geyser's breath, 
And in my veins the warrior spirit sped. 



20 



The Song of the Engine. 

Then as mv frame thrilled for the battle's sight, 
My lord bade me go forth to war 'gainst Time ; 
My shoulders felt the mantle of the knight, 
My feet leaped o'er the rail in eager rhyme. 

Forth from the children of the grimy cave, 
Shaped by a thousand hands I sprang to find 

The merry faces that the dewdrops lave, 
And in among the waving grass to wind. 

I tossed my helmet white into the air. 
And all the cornfields nodded as I raced, 

I shouted as I breathed without a care, 
And all the hills came up to bid me haste 

Thus for awhile I'll dance to their desire, 

Speed purpose-bound, spurred by a soul of fire ; 

On, on to gain my bride, a fleeing prize, 

Held in those purple arms dropped from the skies ; 

Could one mad leap reach the horizon's hill, 

I'd grapple Time and win my love at will: 

But soon will shining wheels grow dumb and dim- 

The distant track shall meet at twilight's rim. 

Then to that town from where no cortege goes 

I'll bear my lord, and seek again repose 

Deep in the shadow's home, below the snows. 

Behold me ! out of the west I come, " 

The iron muscled! The fire ghoul! 
Keeping step to the lightning's drum 



21 



The Song of the Engine. 

Bearing the loved of many a home, 
Bearing the hopes of many a sonl, 
On through the day and the dark I roll, 
Over the rails I rumble and roll. 

E. S. Brandt^ 



83 



the: waltz. 

Softly the music comes floating to me, 
Gliding along in the waltz with thee. 

Forgot are the worries and cares of the day. 
As to the rhythmical music we sway — 
Turning and gliding and turning once more — 
Faces float mistily past by the score. 

Hand clasped in hand, gently moving along, 
Dreamily dancing ; no thought of the throng. 

Chatter and laughter and rustle of gowns, 
Surging in waves till the sound nearly drowns 
The whisper, so eagerly poured in my ear, 
"Say, who is the pretty girl back of us here?" 

— Ruth Woodley. 



23 



SLUMEE,R SONG. 

Hush-a-by, — 

Let the heavy eyelids fall, 
While our shadows on the wall 
Weave the charms that summon sleep, 
Count again the silent sheep 
As they pass the distant bars; ~^ 
Number slowly all the stars. 

Sleep, while back and forth we sway, 
You and I, 

Rocking on the dreamland way. 

Hush-a-by, — 

Fill your hands with fairy gold, 
Claim as much as heart will hold 
Of the dreamer's hidden joy. 
And I could, my bonny boy, 
I would follow in your wake I 
Had I magic power to shake 

Care's cold fingers from my heart, 
Then might I 

Learn of your sweet sleep the art. 

Lull-a-by, — 

Hear me sing it soft and low 
While I hold you fast. Just so 
I was held in loving arms. 



24 



Sluraber Song. 

And made captive by your charms 

Of these shadow -sprites that glide 
Ever nearer to thy side, 
Once,— in years almost forgot, 

Though I sigh, 
Slumber, sweet, and hear me not. 

Hush-a-by,. lull-a-by, hush-a-by. 

— Maud Lyons. 



25 



HER. WORLD. 

Behind them slowly sank the eastern world, 
Before them new horizons opened wide ; 
"Yonder," he said, "old Rome and Venice wait, 
And lovely Florence by the Arno's tide." 
She heard, but backward all her heart had sped. 
Where the young moon smiled through the sun 

set red ; 
"Yonder," she thought, "with breathing soft 

and deep. 
My little lad lies smiling in his sleep." 

They sailed where Oapri beamed upon the sea. 
And Naples slept beneath her olive trees ; 
They saw the plains where rode the gods of old. 
Pink with the flush of wild anemones. 
They saw the marble by the master wrought 
To shrine the heavenly beauty of his thought. 
Still rang one longing through her smiles and 

sighs, 
"If I could see my little lad's sweet eyes!" 

Down from her shrine the dear Madonna gazed 
Her baby lying warm against her breast 
"What does she see?" he whispered; "can she 

guess 
The cruel thorns to those soft temples pressed?" 
"Ah, no, "she said; she shuts him safe from 

faarmi, 

26 



Her World. 

Within the love-looked harbor of her arms. 
No fear of coming fate could make me sad, 
If so, tonight, I held my little lad." 

"If you could choose," he said "a royal boon 
Like that girl dancing yonder for the king. 
What from all her kingdom would you bid 
Obedient Fortune in her hand to bring?" 
The dancer's robe, the glitterng banquet hall, 
Swam in a mist of tears along the wall. 
"Not i)ower, " she said, "nor riches nor delight, 
But just to kiss my little lad tonight 1 ' ' 

— Emily Huntington Miller. 



V 



THE MAN IN THE MOON. 

You funny old Man in the Moon, 

What do you do all night, 
As you sail and float in your golden boat 

Down the misty streams of light? 

You jolly old Man in the Moon, 

What do you find to see, 
As you rock and roll in that golden bowl 

And the wind sings a melody? 

You cheery old Man in the Moon, 

What do you have for a sail, 
As you skim and glide on the glittering tide. 

Where the stars shine dim and pale? 

You lazy old Man in the Moon, 

Do you know how to row a boat? 
Do you sit and dream on that quiet stream, 

And just let your vessel float? 

You lonely old Man in the Moon, 
Do you have any friends up there? 

Are you all alone? Have you homesick grown, 
As you sail on that sea so fair? 

You friendly old Man in the moon. 
Do you signal the stars you meet, 



28 



The Man in the Moon. 

As yoa glide on through, in that sea so blue, 
And the ripples dance at your feet? 

You strange old Man in the Moon, 

Do the storms ever trouble you? 
Do the waves dash high in that stormy sky, 

And splash your boat with blue? 

You wonderful Man in the Moon, 

With your merry laughing eyes, 
Do you sometimes stop, and your anchor drop 

In a harbor up in the skies? 

You funny old Man in the Moon, 
Do you laugh at the things you see? 

As you slyly blink, and the pale stars wink, 
Oould it be you're laughing at me? 

— Helen M. Jewell. 



29: 



SUPPOSE,. 

Suppose you were reading some wonderful tome 

That led you way back in the past, 
Till with feasting and fighting in Athens or Rome 

You'd forget in what age you were cast; 
Suppose while thus "busy" you heard a wee voice 

And felt a small hand on your knee, 
Would the world of the present or past be your 
choice 

At the sound of that little "take me"? 
Oh, come, now! Be honest! What would you do? 
You'd "take" Tiny Toddler and hug him to you. 

Suppose you had been in the city all day, 

In the trouble and turmoil of trade, 
Till your brain was so weary you felt the dismay 

Of an overtaxed surface-car jade ; 
Suppose you were smoking and taking your ease, 

And in should come little Boy Blue 
To "play horsey" with papa, and "wouldn't he 
please 

To kick up" and such antics go through? 
Oh, come, now! Be honest! What would you do? 
You'd prance and "play horsey" with little Boy 
Blue! 

Suppose you were thinking of serious things? 

Of questions mortality asks, 
Till life, with the problems perplexing it brings, 

Seemed a round of impossible tasks ; 
Suppose while thus puzzled, a frown on your 
brow. 



30 



Suppose, 

And your face looking solemn and grim, 
Little laddie insists you shall be a *' bow-wow 1" 

Or sing "Hey! Diddle, diddle!" to him. 
Oh, come, now! Be honest! What would you do? 
You'd "bark" or recite Mother Goose, wouldn't 
you? 

— William S. Lord. 



31 



SINCE GRANDMA WENT AWAY» 

The dear old house is empty now 

Since Grandma's gone away. 
The door is closed, the window barred. 

The wind moans softly all the day 
About the house upon the hill, 

Since Grandma went away. 

The sparrows chirrup and look in vain, 

Since Grandma went away, 
For the feast of crumbs, each frosty day. 

That fell so free from a loving hand 
Stretched forth to help, and soothe, and bless 

Ere Grandma went away 

No tender face beams kindly forth, 

Since Grandma went away ; 
No gentle hand smooths back the curls 

From the troubled brow of childish care 
Or lightens the load by words of love, 

Since Grandma went away. 

Since Grandma went away, 
The nodding rose above the door 
That saw, when none were nigh, 
The pleading face toward heaven raised, 
Now droops in sorrow, left alone. 
Since Grandma went away. 

— Alma Carlson. 



33 



THE, LITTLE, MISSIONARIES. 

The little wave-babies come tumbling in 

Each with a white bonnet tied under its chin, 

A bonnet of foamy and delicate lace 

That fringes a busy, alert little face. 

A night-cap! A white-cap! my word upon it, 

You never have seen a more ravishing bonnet. 

And each little wave brings a breeze by the hand, 
A-leading it hurriedly up to the sand. 
That soft sound you hear is a kiss and "Good- 
bye." 
And the wave- baby's sobbing and sad little cry, 
While the cool little wind finds you out in your 

place, 
And daintily touches your tired, hot face. 

Ah I brave little breeze, come from over the sea ; 
Go hurry along; shake the leaves in the tree; 
Steal into dark rooms where the sick people lie. 
And tell the cool waters beneath a blue sky ; 
Fan brows and kiss cheeks ; calm each fevered 

breast. 
And whisper the weary some secret of rest. 

— Kate Wisner McClusky. 



33 



MY PAPERWEIGHT. 

There on my table-top it lies, 

Its tawny marble purple-veined ; 

It tells a tale of brighter skies, 

Of splendid halls where Caesars reigned. 

Once more it brings those golden days 

When Petrarch's sun about us shone — 

Her gift, at parting of our ways : 

A little paperweight of stone. 

Dear Hebe! Human? Yes, I own, 
But yet, to my adoring mind, 
The sweetest boon old earth has known, 
God's perfect thought of womankind. 
And of all weary years I've spent 
I number but those hours alone 
Whereof remains as monument 
One little paperweight of stone. 

And still we meet, and still we part, 
But never vow to Heaven sent 
Has quickened once her even heart. 
Or pierced her radiant self-content. 
I, dreaming on in spite of years 
That o'er my fruitless prayers have flown. 
Still kiss, with hot and blinding tears, 
My little paperweight of stone. 



Si 



My Paperweight. 

God bless her ! Changeful is my lot, 
Through varied scenes my course has 

ranged, 
Long, long ago I had forgot 
Could but my foolish heart have changed I 
And as my life toward evening slopes 
I'll prize it still, more sacred grown: 
It seals the tomb of all my hopes — 
That little paperweight of stone. 

— James Ta/t Hatfield, 



S3 



"TE,DDY." 

Brave "Teddy" took his gun and went 

A-hunting in the west, 
And every weary soul grew glad; 

We thought we'd have a rest. 
Our tired eyes once more were bright, 

And each one thanked his Maker; 
But, oh, hard luck, ''Ted" also took 

Five reams of essay paper. 

From break of dawn till darkness comes. 

The forest's in a bustle; 
The mountain lion's rapid gait 

Betokens "Teddy's" hustle. 
And now in Colorado's woods. 

The dead game proves the fighter ; 
While high above the gun's report 

Is heard the dread typewriter. 

In Colorado's sunny clime. 

On Cuba's blood-red soil, 
Our "Teddy" placed his ideal high, 

A life of strenuous toil. 
And whether the game be boodler bold 

Or the wily mountain sheep ; 
His quarry "on the jump, " we pray 

That "Ted" may ever keep 

—A. IV. Campbell. 



36 



WHE,N JANICE, SMILES. 

When Janice smiles, the world is fair ; 
Troubles like bubbles burst in air, 
My heart is caught in Cupid's snare, 
When Janice smiles. 

When Janice laughs, my heart grows bold 
To tell the tale that ne'er is old, 
To win her love more dear than gold, 
When Janice laughs. 

When Janice scolds, the world is drear ; 
Her freezing looks I greatly fear, 
For ne'er a loving word I hear, 
When Janice scolds. 

When Janice frowns the world is black ; 
My heart is tortured on the rack, 
For then she never calls me ' ' Jack, ' 
When Janice frowns. 

When Janice frowns, I'm "John" to her, 
My case is lost if I demur 
To scorn her proud "No, thank you sir,'* 
When Janice frowns. 

But when at last her smiles I win, 
I crave remission for my sin, 
The world again is bright and fair. 
All life is free from pain and care. 
When Janice smiles. 

— Mary Cecilia Strickler, 



37 



KEATS. 

While paths of his fair shadowland I tread, 
Bewitched by echoes of sweet songs gone by 
And dreaming too of songs unsung, that lie 

In silence desolate since Keats is fled 

With music's self to gladden all the dead— 
I almost doubt a poet's right to die, 
Before the witless world that draws the sigh 

Of sorrow from his heart, for him hath bled. 

Now heedless of our censure or our praise, 
Rich in a golden portion none may share, 
Lost in deep mystery of heavenly day 
He rests, nor hears the unavailing prayer 
Of those who mourn, beside his shrine of fame, 
For fiongs unsung that sleep beneath his name. 

-—Maud Lyons. 



m 



A MAN. 

I like the man who faces what he must 

With step triumphant and a heart of cheer; 

Who fights the daily battle without fear ; 

Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering trust 

That God is God ; that somehow, true and just 

His plans work out for mortals ; not a tear 

Is shed when fortune, which the world holds dear, 

Falls from his grasp ; better, with love a crust 

Than living in dishonor, denies not 

Nor loses faith in man but does his best, 

Nor ever murmurs at his lot, 

But with a smile and words of hope gives zest 

To every toiler ; he alone is great, 

Who by a life heroic conquers fate. 

Henrv A. Delano. 



39 



••THE.RE, GO THE SHIPS." 

Psalm civ. 26. 
The wliite-winged ships are sailing all the seas, 

'Neath every sky to every land and zone 
By tropic zephyr, or by Arctic breeze 

Borne onward ; wandering pathless and alone. 

Thns go the phips upon the gleeful waves, 
The throbbing canvas pulsing in the gale ; 

Scathless above the hidden ocean caves 
The silver crested seas they sail and sail. 

Spices and gems, rich fabrics of Cathay, 
The wealth of all the Indies is their store ; 

The gathered produce of the proud today, 
The garnered treasures of the realms of yore. 

And some fair starlit night, with regal pride, 
Swift-winged, soft rocking in the offing near 

They gather home, and lo! across the tide, 
On the hushed air the signal guns we hear. 

So ever on time's lapsing wastes there ride 
The freighted argosies of thought all rare 

And souls attent, at some calm eventide, 
Will catch their signal in the upper air. 

Elizabeth E . Marcy, 



40 



RECOMPE.NCE. 

As some great tree that deeper, day by day 
Takes root into the earth — some hardy oak 
That firmer stands for every tempest stroke, 
And grapples with huge rocks which bar its way — 
Doth push abroad into the winds that sway, 
New branches and new buds, which suns provoke 
To leaves of living green, until they cloak 
Its trunk in beauty, and new strength display ; 

So does the human soul when torn with grief 

Grow stronger for the trial and the pain, 

Reach out for truths that know not time nor 

change. 
And hold them fast, until they bring relief. 
While hope and gladness blossom out again 
In beauty new and wonderful and strange. 

— William S. Lord, 



A TRIP TO FAR-AWAY LAND. 

"Tell me a story of Far-away land," 

Lisps a tired voice here at my knee : 
And a soft little face gently brushes my hand, 

So I cannot but list to the plea. 
Then I cuddle him tight, 
This little boy bright. 

And far away over the sea 
To the land of the sprites 
And wee elfin knights, 

In a rock-a-bye boat go we. 

And his eyes open wide as I tell of that place, 

Where the children do nothing but play ; 
With fairies for playmates they frolic and chase. 

And dance in the meadows all day. 
Where tiny flowers grow. 
And soft breezes blow. 

In this land of the fairy and fay. 
And he laughs in delight, 
This little boy bright. 

As he thinks of the Far-far-away. 

And I tell him of music so tenderly sweet, 

That rustles about in the trees ; 
While the deer lightly flashes beneath tiny feet. 

As they dance to the tune of the breeze. 



42 



A Trip to Far=A'way Land. 

The happy birds sing 
As on hedges they swing, 

Keeping chord with the droning of bees. 
And the little boy blinks, 
As his curly head sinks ; 

He is heavier now on my knees. 

Then I tell him of moonbeams so silvery smooth, 

Where fairies climb up and slide down, 
And of soft splashing fountains, whose music can 
soothe 

The weary ; and then of a town, 
Whose streets, paved with flowers, 
Are lined with gay bowers, 

And fragrance floats ever around. 
And wee curly head nods ; 
He's off with the gods, 

On a visit to Far-away town. 

— George Craig Stewart. 



DANTE,*S TOMB. 

In Santa Croce of the Florentines, 

Not far within the entrance to the nave, 

Along the line devoted to the brave 

Stands most majestic and all the scenes 

Pictured in marble or on altar screens 

The tomb of Dante, though he made his grave 

Far from the people that themselves forgave 

Their poet's exile who saw Paradise 

The seer of Italy's great epic looks 

Askance in irony severe and stern 

At Florence reading from her book of books. 

Though she, recumbent, with remorse doth burn. 

His gaze, relentless, lily oft rebukes 

The civic pride she all too late did learn. 

— Mary Harriot Norris. 



A SMOKING CAR AT NIGHT- 

Litter of smoke in airy wreath 
And clustering white festoon, 

Like mist that hangs o'er fairy heath 
Beneath a wandering moon, 

Whence elfin bands dance hand in hand 
To weird and rhythmic tune. 

Dreaming the drowsy traveller 

A thousand marvels sees, 
Gaunt ships that haunt a charmed bay 

Waiting some vagrant breeze, 
Dim forest nooks, soft-crooning brooks, 

Where naiads take their ease. 

Forgetful of the flying train, 
Darting through roar and din 

Of cities drear, that upward rear 
Gay wastes of want and sin, 

His fancy roams that borderland 
Where trance and tiuth are kin. 

And all night long old memories throng, 
Bright visions gleam and fade, 

And all night long jbo lilting song 
The marshalled sprites parade, 

Until the paling dawn proclaims 
The ghosts of midnight laid. 

— IV. Herbert Blake. 



& 



WHAT'S GWINE TO COME O* ME,? 

What's gwine to come o' me? 
I'se a iittle baby niggah wid a big flat nose. 
See dem shoes; can't swell no biggah, so dey's 

sproutin' de toes. 
Dis gingham frock with yallah figgah is my only 
does, 
De Lawd only knows 
What's gwine to come o' me. 

What's gwine to come o' me? 
Ain't got no shiny dolly wid dem roll-back eyes; 
Aint' got no 'lectric trolley, like de white folks 

buys. 
My cawt? Done busted. Golly, how I longs an' 
sighs, 
Just thinkin' 'bout 
What's gwine to come o' me! 

What's gwine to come o* me? 
Aint' got no yard to play in, an' res' like feddah 

bed: 
De beah bwown place I stay in, 'pears to be all 

dead 
No flowah-beds to lay in, an res' my little head 
From a thinkin' 'bout 
What's gwine to come o' me. 

— ^. B. Gough. 



46 



DORRIS AND HE^K WHEE.L. 

The maidens of the olden time were diligent at 

spinning ; 
And gracefully they turned the wheel with speech 

demure and winning, 
And when some courtly suitor came they wound 

the skein together, 
While hearts were snared in skillful mesh, that 

death alone could sever. 

The maiden of our modern times is also fond of 

spinning. 
But she no snowy linen weaves, — that day has had 

its inning. 
Yet she's devoted to her wheel; her face is 

flushed, not blushing, 
When with some swain she takes a spin, and 

through the parks goes rushing. 

Ah, yes! Sweet Dorris loves to spin — along a 

well paved highway, 
Though, dreading falls, she dares not turn 

through any *' lover's byway." 
Dear Dorris, cross, and flushed, and spent, although 

you do not rue it, 
You're scarce as fair as old time maids. 

(I've wondered if you knew it). 



47 



Dorris and Her Wheel. 

Pray can your new wheel spin a mesh 

So fine from all deceiving 
'Twill hold two hearts 'till death, like those 
When grandma did the weaving? 

— Lillian Gertrude Cobleigh. 



MY MOTHER. 

They tell me she is dead. T hat sainted face in life 
More saintly still in death, 
Changed only by a breath ; 

But she my mother still. My soul, in strife 
With knowledge infinite 
And reason most finite 

Doth grope to know. The dead to us are real ; 
For, since I see her now, 
Her face is ne'er forgot ; 

And in my soul, I know and knowing, feel 
My mother's presence still: 
And so my finite will, 

By reason throned, by faith is mastered well. 
Though she dead to nature be, 
Alas ! she is not dead to me. 

My beloved mother, who loved me, doth dwell 
Yet with me, sainted soul, 
Until the veil aside shall roll. 

Her precepts, trusting God, henceforth shall ever be 
My guide ; and, by them led, 
When others call me dead, 

Then will she welcome me to God's eternity. 

— P. L. McKinnie 



THE, LITTLE, EARTH ANGEL. 

I used to read of angels, 

But their eyes were always blue ; 
As mine were brown, I'd wonder 

If I could be one, too? 
I longed to be an angel. 

And dwell with God, in heaven, 
But thought I never could 

Because my hair was dark and even. 

In vain I searched the pictures, 

Since every-where I found. 
That angels ail, were very fair 

Wnile I was tanned and browned. 
But one glad day, when dreaming 

Of all that was to be, 
There came as lightning's gleaming 

This happy thought to me. 

"Although like angels up in heaven, 

I may not ever be, " — 
Yet like an angel on the earth 

"Our Father" would have me. 
So, kneeling in the sun-light. 

Among the flowers and birds. 
Out through the forest's stillness 

There went to God these words : 



50 



The Little £,arth Angel. 

"O Father! though I am too brown 

To dwell with angels fair, 
Please let me be one on the earth 

And serve thee every -where! 
And make me live a long, long time, 

Until my hair turns white ; 
Until in Thy sight I am fair, 

And like an angel, bright!" 

— Elizabeth Boynton Harberto 



SI 



AT THE JUNIOR PROME.NADE. 

The stars were out and the moon was bright 

At the Junior Promenade, 
But all the glories of starlit night 
Were bated before the splendid sight 
Of that merry throng — and my lady in white, 

At the Junior Promenade. 

Oh, she was tall and wondrous fair 

At the Junior Promenade, 
Her eyes were stars, and black was her hair, 
Her cheeks shone red in the bright light's glare. 
I worshiped her quite as I danced with her there. 

At the Junior Promenade. 

She waltzed with the grace of a goddess divine 

At the Junior Promenade. 
I held her close, her hand in mine, 
My cheek touched the strands of her hair so fine, 
A perfume arose from her lips of wine, 

At the Junior Promenade. 

Such seeds of love in my heart were sown 

At the Junior Promenade, 
Till soon came the end— I was left alone, 
And then found out — what I cannot disown- 
That I had made love to the chaperone 

At the Junior Promenade. 

— Carey Culbertson, 



52 



THE LITTLE ONE. 

Only a patter of little feet 

Out on the oaken stair; 
Only a voice that is low and sweet 

Rings through the quiet air. 
Only a tangle of golden curls, 

Like sunbeams from the skies, 
Only a baby's laughing face, 

With its pair of roguish eyes. 

Only a pair of chubby arms, 
Clasped round your neck so tight, 

Only the sleepy little kiss, 
Ere you have said "Good Night.'* 

Only a weary little form. 
Tired with all its play ; 

Only a mother's heartfelt prayer. 
Offered at close of day. 

On]y a baby is sleeping now. 

Under the quiet sod ; 
Only another innocent soul 

Has found its true home with God. 
Only a mother's aching heart, 

Waits silently in despair 
To hear, as of old, those pattering feet 

Out on the oaken stair. 

— Jessie Buell Cele, 



53 



BY AND BY. 

There's a bonny, bonny land lying in the By and 
By, 

And it stretches far beyond the largest reach of 
human eye, 

Far beyond the hills and valleys where the sun 
from gorgeous pyre 

Lights the rim of the horizon with a ruby's flash- 
ing fire. 

We shall rest beside the streamlets flowing through 

it, you and I, 
In that bonny, bonny land lying in the By and 

By; 
And the clouds shall be the pillows that will rest 

the weary head, 
For the riot and the uproar haunting us will then 

have fled. 

"We shall grow a heart capacious, holding room 
for friend and foe ; 

We shall live the life abundant where the kind- 
est breezes blow ; 

For the bonny, bonny land lying in the By and 
By 

Is a land where nothing enters that can bring the 
slightest sigh. 



54 



By and By. 

So I'm standing on the hill-top, and I'm peering 

in my quest 
'Cross the misting mead and valleys stretching 

far out toward the west, 
'Till the disappearing distance seems to mock me 

as I try 
To find that bonny, bonny land lying in the By 

and By. 

— P. E. Thomas. 



55 



THE ASPIRATION OF SIX LITTLE, COCOONS. 

The wise Father Silk Worm requested one day, 
His six little children to come in from play, 
That this little woman and that little man, 
Might tell him what each for the future would 
plan, 
"Equality, tell us just how you intend. 
The oncoming years of your future to spend?" 
"The Gown of a Judge I should quite like to be 
And win honor untold for my name, ' ' answered 
he. 
Veracity, e'er to her own color true. 
Would be wrought into silk for a rich robe of blue. 
Fair Freedom then said, "I shall greatly rejoice, 
If Liberty's cap is approved for my choice. " 
While Love, young and winsome and sure to 

prevail, 
Her blushes would hide in a silk bridal veil. 
Fraternity thought he would do the most good, 
As a badge emblematic of true brotherhood. 
Then Purity hastened her wish to declare, 
A lily of lace in an altar-cloth rare. 
The web of their wishes thus deftly begun, 
The fond Father, smiling said, "Children, well 
donel 
If to dwell thus in unity all will agree, 
A blessing you'll prove through the ages to be. 



56 



The Aspiration of Six Little Cocoons. 

Each wish shall be granted you surely will 

find, 
For behold in your Mother these virtues com- 
bined, 
Since ever in blessing she waves over you, 
She's Our Country's loved Flag, peerless Rod, 
White and Blue. ' ' 

— Boynton Bess Harbert. 



57 



STORMS OF THE, NIGHT. 

Have you seen in the morning the gleam of the 

sunshine, 
When the rifts in the mist show the blue of the 

sky, 
When the white-winged petrel skims out on the 

water 
To seek its lost mate with its conjugal cry? 
Have you seen in the morning the great looming 

vessels 
That ride the horizon to some harbor bar? 
Have you seen the mad billows sink into their 

slumber 
And rock to the croon of the winds from afar? 
The fury that rode on the waters at midnight, 
The somber cloud banks that hung low in the air 
Depart at the coming of each rosy morning 
As troubles depart from a heart full of care 
When love comes in. Aye, the sky turns blue, 
The gray mists fade away and the waves stop still 
And the proud ploughing ships like the birds float 

free. 
When the gleam of the morning floods water and 

hill. 
There's a night in the heart like the night in the 

sky, 
And the turbulent sea of our hope runs wild 



58 



Storms of the Night. 

And the ship of our soul careens sometimes 
And wanders astray like a wayward child, 
Till the sun of the morning of joy bursts forth, 
Till the clouds of despair and the fears take 

flight, 
Then our face looks up and the world is calm, 
For gone are the dread dark storms of the night. 

—O. L. Hall, 



m 



BABY'S DRE.AM. 

Did you ever watch the baby, 
When his eyes were closed in sleep, 

When the little hands lie idle, 
And in quiet rest his feet? 

Have you watched the tiny dimples 

As they play at hide and seek, 
While passing gleams of sunny smiles 

'Round his wee mouth slyly creep 

Is he playing with the fairies, 
In that far off land of dreams? 

Do the angels bring to baby, 
Visions that are never seen 

By the eyes grown dim in service, 
Bv the hearts grown faint with care, 

That for one such hour of slumber, 
Would give all that life holds dear? 

Sleep on, darling little dreamer, 

In thy innocence and glee. 
May the world-touch never blighten 

Thy sweet, childlike purity. 

May the angels ever guide thee, 

Through this world of storm and strife, 
'Till the last sweet sleep enfolds thee, 

At the other end of life. 

— Ethel Goodrich, 



60 



HAX,LOWE,EN. 

In the white and sparkling night 
Gleams the woodland meadow ; 

Trembling bars of silver light 
Thread the forest's shadow. 

Laughing fays on Luna's rays 

Down to earth are sliding; 
Through the elfin dance's maze 

Soon they all are gliding. 

Far and near their friends appear, 

Bent on midnight folly ; 
Dwarfish gnomes and goblins queer, 

Brownies fat and jolly. 

Round and round upon the ground, 

Whirling all together, 
In and out the spirits bound, 

Airy as a feather. 

Till the ray of dawning day 

Tips the frosty clover ; 

Vanished now is every fay, 

Halloween is over. 

— C. H, HaUe, 



61 



TAG. 

Dear Kate, 
Do you remember when we'd say 
When we were children at our play, 

**You're itl" 
And in that dear old game of tag 
Whichever of us dared to lag 

Was it? 

Yes, John, 
I can't forget those happy days, 
With all their merry childhood's plays. 

And, too. 
When you were always teasing me 
To climb way up our apple tree 

With you. 

Dear Kate, 
I'd quite forgot the apple tree. 
But say, won't you play tag with me? 

I'm it! 
I'd like to always tag you, dear. 
Why can't we start the game right here? 

Say it. 

Well, John, 
Indeed you quite surprise me now ; 
I'd hesitate to make a vow 

On it, 
Unless, when I give you my hand, 
You'll swear I'll never tag youand 

Be it. 

— Grace D. Mercer, 



62 



A RIVER SCENE= 

Come erlong, yo' Bellevue darkies, 
Ef yo' gwine pile on tuh dis raf 

Wha's hyah by de ole stone landin' 
Wid sioh a load'd mek yo' laf. 

Dyah's Hannah wid huh pick'ninny 
His wolly haid scrooched by huh knee, 

Aunt Mari' nex' Uncle Petah ; 
Fan an' Lize long' side ob me. 

Wha's Aunt Tempe wid dem baskits? 

Ain't gwine leab dem nohow, no! 
Set up straight an' mine you mannahs, 
W'ite folks am watchin' from de sho'. 

Git dem poles up quick, yo' Rastus ! 

Ol rivah runnin' swif ' jes' now ; 
Silvah watah cahnt he'p singin' 
Dat lafiS.n' chune eron' de prow. 

"Lir Tawm," jes' drap dat fiddle 1 
'F I catch yo' foolin' wid dat bow 

Dyah'U be 'bout one small niggah, 
Mo'orless, on some othuh sho' ! 

Heabe on boa'd dose watahmillions' 
Mek room for shoat an' roastin'-cohn, 

Seems lak I smells * ' ole barbecue, ' ' 
Or somep'n good, suh, sho's yo' bohn. 



63 



A River Scene. 

Now we'alls off, w'ite folks smilin', 
Reckon dey wisht dis raf wuz deirs. 

Lir Tawm yells back tuh Marse Geo'gie 
Tuh run home quick an' say he prahs. 

Talk erbot yo' "ole times," darkies, 
Smmah night wahn't haf so fine! 

*Clar', dat moon am biggrn evah! 
Teks him tuh know jes' wen tuh shine. 

Heah de ripple ob de rivah 
Es we poles erlong right slow, 

Bre'kin up de moony pictures 
An' dem lil' stars dat's drapped below. 

Han' me, now, meh deah ole fiddle 
Twell hit chunes up clar an' low. 

Fit for sweetheahts an' de angels 
Es I 'gin draw hits singin' bow. 

List'n tuh dat blackbird's whistle, 

Den de answer of dis bow. 
T'ink he gits er sweetah rimble 

Dan meh ole wabblahs lak tuh show? 

Dat ain' me yo' heahs erplayin', 

I cahn't mek music — wish't I cud- 
Hits dem kisses of de catcut 
Wen hit touch de magic wood. 

Lan' o' Goshen, dyah's meh honey 
Trimblin' lak er leaf ob fern! 

(Oou'se I has tuh squeeze huh fingahs, 
But twix' two gals, w'ioh am huhn?) 



64 



A River Scene. 

Am does teahs I sees a-hangin* 

On yo' lashes t'ick an' long? 
So, sweetheaht, Ise jes' erfoolin* 

Yo' ain' jealous ob a song! 

Lif yo' haid up lak meh Liza, 
I flings dis fiddle en de Jeemes, 

Wha hits moanin', lovin' croonin' 
On'y mek music en meh dreams,. 

Yo' likes hit? yo' sho' is jokin'? 

Am jes' waitin' tuh heah me play? 
Golly, Lize, I bleeves yo'se smilin' ; 

An' Ise been fooled de ole, ole way. 

'—Helen Clark Balmer, 



65 



THE FISH THAT GOT AWAY. 

'Twas but a fleeting look, a glimpse, 

As for a moment, high in air, 
Impaled upon the cruel hook. 

The fish, in anguish, struggled there. 

'Twas but a glimpse, and then a downward flash 
As when comets at midnight play; 

And we were left alone to dream 
Of the fish that got away. 

'Tis strange how, at a single glance. 

You can find so great display 
Of virtue and of excellence 

In a fish that gets away. 

It shone with irridesoent light ; 

How much it weighed, we dare not say. 
'Twas one we long had sought, and caught it not, 

This fish that got away. 

But of this creature passing fair. 

The fame alone did with us stay. 
We could but sing the praises to our friends, 

Of the fish that got way. 

So hopes and joys that fairest seem, 

As we live through our little day. 
Are hopes and joys unrealized, 

The fish that got way. 

—Ethel M. Bates, 



VIOLETS IN A CITY STRE,E,T. 

A patch of blue against the city's gray, 
A hint of forest paths and winding streams, 
Low-murmuring breezes, and a boy, who dreams 

Of the great beckoning world, so far away. 

A breath from country lanes — the scent of bloom, 
That floats o'er fallow, field and meadow land, 
The gleam of sunlit trees, — the open hand 

Of nature where yon iron prisons loom. 

Fresh violets,— and a little peering face, 
A wee, pale thing in grimy, tattered blue, 
That waits and wonders there the whole day 
through, 
Where the long threads of traffic interlace 
And weary feet plod on, nor ever stay, — 
A patch of blue against the city's gray 

— W. Herbert Blake. 



m 



THE PURITAN SERMON. 

When Jack arose to preach — oh my ! 

The meadow rue gave one long sigh, 
The violet closed her weary eye, 

When Jacls arose to preach. 

When Jack arose to preach — oh, oh ! 

The bishop's cap annoyed him so 
He really feared he'd have to go, 

When Jack arose to preach. 

When Jack arose to preach, 'tis said 
The dandelion drooped her golden head 

And nestled in her leafy bed. 
When Jack arose to preach. 

When Jack arose to preach — oh, dear! 

The buttercup squeezed out a tear. 
And said she wasn't wanted here , 

When Jack arose to preach. 

When Jack arose to preach — dear me I 
The star-flower didn't care to see — 

**To hear him is too much," said she, 
When Jack arose to preach. 

When Jack arose to preach — oh, grief 1 
The grasses laid their blades in sheath, 



The Puritan Sermon, 

And turned to slumber for relief, 
When Jack arose to preach. 

When Jack shut up his book — why then 
The flowers all woke up again, 

And shouted loud and clear, "Amen!" 
When Jack arose to preach. 

— Abbie Florence Williams, 



m 



THE, EVER FAITHFUL. 

I bade good-by to Folly, 

And turned from her one day ; 
The echoes of her laughter 
Came floating blithely after 

Me on the lonely way— 
I bade good by to Folly, 
Her laugh was loud and jolly, 

Her countenance was gay. 

I sighed for sweet old Folly 

Again one gloomy day; 
I pictured heavy hearted, 
The joys of youth departed, 

Forever put away— 
And turned, and there was Folly 
Her laugh was loud and jolly. 

Her countenance was gay. 

— S. E. Kiser. 



70 



A MOONLIGHT FANTASY, 

When the south wind softly blows 
And the rippling water flows 
In the witching, moonlit night, 
With a flood of mellowy light ; 
Then upon the silvery stream — 
Where the wavelets wierdly gleam- 
Launch your boat and let it glide 
Through the molten, argent tide. 

With a soft, caressing dip 
Let your paddles fall, and drip 
On the shimmerng sheet of light 
Myriad drops of pearly white. 
By this measured, rhythmic stroke 
Charming pictures you invoke 
And a thousand visions rise 
To your dreamy, half-shut eyes. 

All the world is lost and gone 
As the boat steals gently on, 
And the soul this moment flits 
Out from where the body sits, 
To the land of necromancy 
Peopled with a poet's fancy, 
Where no sordid spirits sever 
All that's good in man forever. 

71 



A Mooriiight Fantasy. 

While this cup of bliss yon taste 

Cares and troubles are effaced. 

And but purest thoughts arise 

In this dream of Paradise ! 

But, alas ! the mind returns 

To that world one vainly spurns : 

Comes a cry that's half a sob, 

Beats the heart with quickened throb. 

As the dreamer with a sigh 

Put the golden vision by ; 

And the half -forgotten oars 

Bring him back to prosy shores. 

"•—Samuel Travers Clover . 



72 



BYRON. 

O mighty mind corrupted in thy youth, 

How sad that thou shouldst, with unblushing vice, 

Alloy the purest gold of genius, nice : 

But ere thy death the messenger of truth 

Had stirred thy passions deep with holy truth ; 

When Freedom called thou gavest the luring dice 

Forever to the past, and in a trice, 

'Gainst selfish fame and gentle pleadings proof, 

"With purse and self thou hasted to her side. 

To lay thine all upon her altar bright, 

To sacrifice thy genius, hope and life, 

To sink forever with the flowing tide 

Of Freedom's first stern patriots of light, 

And die within the sound of holy strife. 

— George Cater. 



73 



THE FAIREST GIFT. 

If I might give the world one gift, 

And choose it as I pleased ; if through 
Some miracle 'twere mine to lift 

A hand and thereby set a new 
Condition over men, I would not strew 

Before them riches that they seek today, 
I would not be induced to sweep away 

One task that God has given them to do. 

I would not make the dark days fair, 

Nor curb the bitter winds that blow, 
Nor deck the streams with lilies where 

The angry muddy waters flow ; 
I would not bring the lordly master low, 

Nor raise the servant up who cringes now, 
He that is plowing still should guide the plow, 

Tears still should wash away the widow's woe. 

I would not heed his bitter cry 

Who calls upon the poor to wrest 
From them whose palace walls are high 

Gold for the starving and oppressed, 
But he that has within his honest breast 

The fear that wrong is spreading here below 
I would with glad conviction give to know 

That God's world still is rising to its best. 

'—S. E. Kiser, 



74 



THE WILD ASTER. 

She has bright, twinkling eyes, 

Wears a pale, purple cap 

And dresses in green every day, 

She lives by the wayside 

But never was known 

To tell what she hears people say. 

She laughs when the raindrops 

Gome pattering down 

And never complains of the heat ; 

She can dance like fi sylph, 

When the breezes are light. 

Far better than folk with their feet. 

The butterflies say that 

The gay golden rod 

Is in love with her soft, glancing ways ; 

That explains why together 

They whisper and nod 

Through all the long summer days. 

— Anna Gordon. 



75 



MOTKIIR GOOSE 

There's a book we all know and can quote by the 
page, 

No other book stands in its place ; 
In childhood, in manhood, in youth and in age, 

Its jingling wisdom we trace. 
'Tis a book that we love (you'll do well to 
confess) 

No matter what others we use, 
And its title is — what? Now couldn't you guess? 

Of course ! It is old Mother Goose. 

The first time you read it you skipped all the 
words. 

The pictures alone took your eye ; 
Those wonderful pictures of beasts and of birds 

Of creatures that crawl, walk or fly ; 
You cared not a bit for the wisdom and wit, 

Nor detected the rhyming was loose — 
On the floor by the hour you would silently sit 

Enchanted by dear Mother Goose. 

There was Old King Cole, the merry old soul, 
And Miss Muffet with curds and whey ! 

The men who went sailing the sea in a bowl, 
And the lady-bug idling away ; 



76 



Mother Goose. 

There was Little Boy Blue, and. Jack Horner, too, 
And Miss Flinders who suffered abuse ; 

And the birds in the pie, and Cry, Baby, Cry — 
They're still living in good Mother Goose. 

Mother Goose does not rank very high in the list 

Of best books — oh ! give her a prop ! 
Oome help me maintain her claims — to insist 

That she's given a place near the top. 
There may be some better, now many are worse ! 

Her maligners will cry for a truce 
If we take up her standard and stoutly rehearse 

The glories of good Mother Gocse. 

— William S, Lord, 



77 



ENCOURAGE,ME.NT. 

Faint not, faint not, in life's journey, 

The end is near. 
Think not all is toil and sorrow, 

For joy is here. 
Do not hide thy light in shadows, 

Some one falls thro' an absent ray. 
Keep not back the word of blessing. 

Some one waits for it today. 

Look up through the veil of shadows, 

For strength is near. 
With thy tears another comfort, 

For ioy is here. 
Just as flowers, whose blossoms gathered, 

Bloom again with increased store, 
So all life with wealth expended. 

Enriched joys reap evermere. 

— Grace Holmes. 



78 



BELIE.F. 

Faith, hope and reason change, 
Belief is shifting as the sand, 
But love is steadier than a star, 
Its light shines on beyond the bar. 

O ! mind of man, awake ! 
Forsake your father's fears, 
For growth is the test of life 
And love is the end of years. 

— Frank H. Edwards, M. D. 



79 



A PRIMORDIAL WOOING. 

A long time ago, when the world was new, 

And folks lived up in cocoa-nut trees, 
And swung on the branches the whole day 
through, 

Or rummaged their hair for a meal of fleas. 
Those poor people never once dieamed of the 
sights 

That their children's children would live to see, 
Those Simians never stayed awake nights 

To think of the land of the "Is-to-be." 

No parlors there were in the long ago. 

Where one could sit with the charming fair. 
And whisper and sigh, with the light turned low, 

And thank his stars that her pa wasn't there,. 
Their ways were awkward and slow, it would 
seem. 

Were they living now they would learn a few. 
And yet they knew something of love's young 
dream 

In the ancient days when the world was new. 

One summer morning a chimpanzee, 
In the olden time when the world was new, 

Sang loud to his love from a cocoa-nut tree 
In the ancient kingdom of Timbuctoo ; 



80 



A Priniordia.! Wooing. 

And he cried, **0 darling, so sweet and prim, 
What rapture to see you sitting there, 

With your tail curled over the knot of a limb ! 
Oh, may I not call you my true love fair?" 

But while the lover thus sung and cried, 

And languished and yearned for his true love, 
fair. 
The lady in question scratched her side, 

Then turned and gave him a haughty stare ; 
And said, "You are altogether too bold, 

The top of your head hasn't any hair on. 
I am young, but you are ugly and old — 

I cannot love you. Begone. Begone," 

Then the wily old **munk" winked his other ear. 
And said, "That I'm ugly must be confessed, 

But yet I'm a wealthy old codger, my dear; 
I have cocoa-nut trees till you couldn't rest." 

Then a change came over the lady fair ; 

Away to greet him she swiftly flew, 
And she cooed, "I was giving you only hot air. 

You're the rarest old darling in Timbuctoo. " 

As I said before, those were stupid days. 
When folks lived up in the tree tops high. 

Their sons and daughters could show them ways 
That would make them open each blinking eye. 

Yet we must confess that those people seem 

81 



A Primordial Wooing, 

(In those far-off times when the world was new) 
To have known a few things about love's young 
dream, 
In the ancient kingdom of Timbuctoo. 

— H. E. Russell. 



82 



THEr CASTLE, ON THE RHINE. 

The gorgeous sunset flaines afar, 

And the molten waters shine; 
And the forest gleams with the golden beams, 

On the castle on the Rhine. 

And the thought returns of the rare old times, 
The days of auld lang syne ; 
And visions of old my spirit hold 
In the castle on the Rhine. 

Ah, not as now, when the wild bird broods 

In the over-trailing vine, 
On the mouldering walls in the vacant halls. 

Of the castle on the Rhine. 

And wanton ivies wandering wide. 

Round the crumbling turrets twine, 
And the storm-winds sweep through the case- 
ments deep, 

Of the castle on the Rhine. 

Not there, not there, but the light of life, 

Exuberant as thine ; 
And the feudal knight, with his armor bright, 

In the castle on the Rhine. 

And high born dames and festive days. 
And song and dance and wine. 



83 



The Castle on the Rhine. 

All the pride of life and tlie gory strife, 
Of the castle on the Rhine. 

And the cowl'd monk beseeching bread, 

In the name of the All-Divine, 
Where the vassals wait at the outer gate. 

Of the castle on the Rhine. 

And the matin chant and the vesper hymn. 

At the Holy Mother's shrine, 
Or the masses said for the sleeping dead, 

Of the castle on the Rhine. 

And the captive wan, who through weary years, 

In the dismal dungeons pine. 
All the woe and want and the famine gaunt, 

Of the castle on the Rhine. 

Thus faintly ebb the memories back. 
Through the ages long decline, 

But they oome no more those days of yore, 
To the castle on the Rhine. 

— Elizabeth E. ATarcy, 



84 



LULLABY. 

The little, the yellow moon-cradle 
Is swaying, is swinging slow ; 
And the wee, little star-candles burning 
Have flickered their light down low ; 
The night has the cloud-curtains ready, 
She is holding them draped on her breast, 
For the dear little, queer little babe in the moon 
Will have soon sunk to rest in the west. 
Hush, baby, hushl 
Mother's heart aches 
For the joy that she takes 
In holding you close to her breast ! 

Perhaps, in the cunning moor.-cradle, 
A little cold baby may be ; 
And the tiny, white star-tapers burning, 
May be sad for some mother to see ! 
O, night-angel, drop the cloud-curtain 
While the gleaming bed's caught in that tree, 
For not even to the rest in the beautiful west 
Would I let my babe go from me ! 

Hush, hush, my sweet! 

Are you warm, little feet? 
Close to my heart you will be I 

-Kate Wisner McClusky, 



THE, FIRST ROBIN. 

It was» spring, but it was chilly, 
As a robin young and silly 
From an icy bough was shrilly 

Piping forth his lonesome lay ; 
And with plumage ruffled badly 
He was meditating sadly 
On the sunny clime where madly 

He had made too short a stay. 

And then, as he shook and shivered, 
While his tones with feeling quivered, 
He this lorn lament delivered, 

While he strove to warm his toes, 
"Why, Oh why was I so foolish, 
Why so obstinate and mulish. 
As to brave these breezes coolish. 

That produce the rubric nose? 

* * What is it now that pleases 
In this land of cold and sneezes. 
Where at night the slush it freezes 

Just to melt again next day ; 
Where, if one day's warm and sunny, 
All the people, feeling funny. 
Blow for summer clothes their money, 

And pack them all away. ? 



86 



The First Robin. 

"Yet the weather man would flout me, 
Saying gravely, * do not doubt me, 
But this gale that howls about thee 

Ought to be a balmy breeze. 
Barometric indications 
And the finest calculations 
All bear out my affirmations' — 

But he ended with a sneeze. 

"Oh this land so chill and sickly, 
Where the fog hangs low and thickly, 
I'll betake me hence most quickly 

On my very swiftest wing. ' ' 
Thus he voiced his mournful wailing, 
And he soon was southward sailing, 
Keeping ever at his railing 

At the woes of early spring. 

— C. G. Sabin. 



87 



IRRESPONSIBILITY. 

I. 

Behold him lurch along the crowded street ; 

His feet, 
Like wayward children, are inclined 
To break from his control. 
And go their ways, and never mind 
The dangers all around. His soul 

Is not opprest ! — 

Within his breast 
No shame finds lodgment. He 

Is free 
From all such longings as I know ; 

He reels along 
Oblivions of the wrong, 

The woe 
That haunts the corners by the way, 
And cares not what the world may say. 

II. 

Oh, if men might bid care 

Begone, and fare 
Forth in the world as free 
From all of life's anxieties as he — 

Oh, if they migrht 
In careless accents cry 

Good-by 



Irresponsibility. 

To all the fears that through the night 
And through the day 
Oppress the heart, 

And yet not be compelled to play 

The ignominious part 

He piays 1 — Oh, for his peace of mind 

Without the shame, 
The brutishness, that makes his name 
A stench to all mankind ! 

—6'. E. Kiser^ 



THE, VALE,NTINE. TART. 

With long labor she made it, 

A heart-shaped tart. 

And fastened it firm with a candy dart ; 

'Twas scalloped and frosted with pink round 

the rim 
And labelled across with the one word "Jim." 

Tied close to the heart with a ribbon blue 
The little maid sent her message true, — 
"I send my heart in a tart to you ; 
And the tart is as good as the heart is true. ' ' 

Now the little maid had heard folks say 

That, on the morn of Valentine's day 

Cupid did his willing part 

By bearing love from heart to heart. 

So the tart was placed on the window sill. 

Awaiting Cupid's own sweet will; 

And the maid, half shy, ran off to play 

Ere Cupid came along that way. 

Now Jim was "as naughty as naughty could be, " 
And who should come tripping along but he? 
He glanced in the window, he saw the tart, 
And he said, "That's after my very heart!" 
It did look so tempting, so pink and whit*» 

90 



The Valentine Tart. 

That Jim could not resist it, — he took a bite! 

Then on the top he saw his name, 

And his soul was filled with remorseful shame. 

Jim looked to the left, and then to the right, 

And then at the tart, all pink and white ; 

He placed it back on the window-sill 

And crept away very quiet and still. 

That night a little maid came to Jim ; 

There were tears in her eyes when she spoke to 

him. 
" 'Tis late to be giving a valentine 
But truly, it isn't a fault of mine!" 

I thought that Oupid surely knew 

That he wa.s to bring it over to you, 

But tonight when I went to the window-siil, 

Your valentine was lying there still. ' ' 

** 'Twas just the prettiest pink and white, 
But Cupid has taken a great big bite ; 
He never brought it to you at all!" 
And the little maid's tears began to fall. 

Jim looked at the tears and then at the tart. 
And something went thump down close to his 

heart. 
'Never mind," — and he groped for something 

to say, — 
* ' I like your broken heart anyway. ' ' 

— Rogerta Dickinson, 



91 



THE WEE CLOGS. 

Whiles when the auld gude wife and I 

Sit noddin' by the blaze, 
And the gloamin's settlin doon ootbye, 

Thoohts come of lang gane days 
When bairns run in and oot the door 

Wi' mony a lauch and cry — 
I think I hear them cross the floor, 

And I canna help but sigh 

For the click, clack, clatter 

Of the wee clogs 'lang the ha'. 

It's fifty years and mair sin' syne, 

And Meg and I are grey ; 
The road's been lang, wi' mony a twine 

We've journeyed sin' the day 
When tears wet doon the new-made grave 

Tha hid oor twa bit boys ; 
But yet i' hope oor hairts are brave, 

Tho' stilled for aye's the noise 

Of the click, clack, clatter 

Of the wee clogs 'lang the ha*. 

For noo we're drawin' near the shore 

And try tae look across, 
To where oor laddies evermore 

Shall ken nae pain, nae loss ; 



93 



The Wee Clogs. 

And we auld folk shall meet them there 

Shall clasp them tae oor breast — 
The bairns we've missed sae lang, sae sail. 
Since when they broke oor rest 

Wi' the click, clack, clatter 

Of the wee clogs 'lang the ha'. 
— /i. S. Alexander. 



93 



THE E,VENING CALL. 

When evening calls us home again 

In the quiet after-glow. 
Of a day that's spent in wand'ring far 

O'er rugged ways below, 

And we come straggling back once more, 

Like children tired of play 
Back again to our Father's house 

At the closing of the day. 

When evening calls us home again 
From following phantom fires, 

Which all the day have led us on 
With feverish desires, 

'Till worn and disappointed sore, 

Sick and like to die, 
We turn our faces, scarred and seared, 

To the Homeland of the sky. 

When evening calls us home again. 

For all have gone astray ; 
We left the Father's house as babes 

For only one short day ; 

We left in the morning's fairest hours 
When birds were singing sweet, 

We're coming back in the waning light 
As the gathering shadows meet : 



94 



The Evening Call. 

When evening calls us home again, 

And all are gathered in — 
Those we've known and loved and lost, 

And those we've failed to win— 

We'll gather 'round the Father's hearth, 

In the blest fraternity, 
And prophesy and taste the joys 

Of all eternity. 

— Mott Mitchell. 



96 



ONE WORLD ENOUGH. 



They say that those are other worlds 

Which gleam at night up there, 
But oh they do not love as I, 

Who question or who care ! 
They gaze across the deeps of space 

And guess and vainly try 
To weigh, to measure and to trace, 

And waste the years that come and go, 
And miss God's best reward, for oh 

They do not love as I ! 

II. 

This is the only world I know, 

And this with her I share ; 
For them that have such love as I 

Those are but dots up there ! 
This is the only world, since she 

Is here to sweetly sigh 
And sometimes sweetly call to me — 

The best that God bestows they miss 

Who search for other worlds than this — 

They do not love as I. 

'■ — -5". E. Kiser, 



96 



VERSIFICATIO LATINA. 

Were I a poet without a theme. 

And long had wished a subject, 
I would not write of "love's young dream," 

'Twould be a foolish project. 

But I would hie to classic Rome, 

And search the poets old, 
Construct in verse my lofty dome 

Of prosidy's rich gold. 

Ionic, Sapphir, Asclepiadic, . 

Alcaic and Archilochian, 
Adonic, Phalaecian and Pherecatic, 

Glyconic and Alcmanian, 

Dactylic Hexameter, Penthymim, 

These all and many such 
Are names of verse ascribed to him 

Whose odes we read so much. 

I think if Horace had but known 

His odes had things like these, 
Some other field he would have sown, 

And thought of others' ease. 

— Ben. L. McFadden 



97 



THE LAND OF THE. OUGHT-TO^BE,. 

Oh, let US away to the country fo dreams, 

To the land of the ought-to-be ! 
Where a thyme covered meadow guides silvery 
streams 

To the edge of a deep blue sea. 

Where the days slip away as I carol to thee 
'Neath a shelter of pearl on the shore, 

While our weather-worn ship, sailing home from 
sea, 
Flies the banner of hope at her fore. 

And there let us dwell, Love, with never a care, 

In the realm of our fancy, free ; 
For there's never a wish that's ungratified there, 

In the land of the ought-to-be. 

— Gay lord S. Wilcox. 



TO A LASS. 

Once thou wert only a butterfly, lass, 

Blithe and gay as could be, 
Thinking of never a care in the world — 

Simply what would be pleasure for thee. 

Always singing and flitting about, 
Dressing up with thy prettiest bow, 

A little bit vain — shall I say it, lass? 
Demanding obeisance low. 

Something, indeed, has changed thee, lass, 
Since the war played havoc with me. 

Thy quiet tread has a purpose, lass, 
Only giving seems now dear to thee. 

Thy touch is more soft than it used to be, 

Thy voice seems so low to me. 
Would every iad in this universe, lass. 

Might have such a sister as thee. 

— Elizabeth Bragdon. 



L.afC. 99 



THE, ANGE,L OF TIME. 

Who rides the dark horse that is fleeing so fast 
O'er meadow and hillside and plain? 

He comes from the Bast, and soon he is past, 
He heeds no human restrain. 

And for thousands of years he has thus ridden on 
O'er nations now mould'ring in dust, 

Mong'st monarchs and thrones and scepters and 
bones ; 
And questioned, he answers, "I mustl" 

'Tis the angel of time, and the fleet-fleeing steed 
Is bearing him Westward with haste 

And the stars twinkle bright as he rides in the 
night 
And humanity watches amazed. 

'Tis the angel of time, and alas, he is past I 

And he brings to Eternity's shore 
The deeds of mankind, whether foul or sublime 

Where the records are kept evermore. 

— Hasse Octavian Enwall. 



100 



AN OBSOLETE PROVERB. 

A girl with a nut-brown hair 

And eyes of bonny blue, 
Danced merrily down the long village street, 
And whistled an air that was joyous and sweet, 

And her notes were clear and true. 

A proverb dull and old 

Would hush thee, whistling maid ; 
A girl that could whistle as gayly and well. 
Would meet with misfortune too dreadful to tell; 

But she still was un-afraid. 

She mocked the bird's glad song; 

They answered at her call, 
And they told her the secrets of hill and of glade, 
For they knew and they loved the fair, light- 
hearted maid, 

And she knew and loved them all. 

And so she whistled on 

In happy careless way ; 
Will you say she was worse for her rollicking 

song, 
Or declare that the art to you men must belong? 
Ah, but you have had your day ! 

—Florence M, Longley. 



101 



The outdoop^ girl. 

What if the merry maiden goes a riding on her 

wheel, 
And wears a graceful costume that is short above 

her heel? 
Can anyone gainsay it, that though changed in 

mode of dress, 
She's of the gender feminine and not a whit the 

less? 
And if she dons the Bloomer or the Knickerbocker 

clothes, 
Is not her person just as sweet as any blooming 

rose? 

What if the college maiden rows a shell or sculls 

an oar, 
Or takes a goal in football game or bowls upon 

the floor? 
Is she any less a woman, if her skin is very brown, 
Than when she trailed her skirts in mud and wore 

a high-necked gown? 
And if she boxes out her foe or fences like a man, 
Lacks she any fascination, whate'er her scheme 

or plan? 

So far as all experience of men with women goes. 
For every ten of marriages, nine have been full 
with woes. 



102 



The Outdoor Girl, 

The very latest woman, with her muscle, brains 

or pluck, 
May bring new joys to wedded life and give us 

better luck. 

Of one thing I am certain from the widest range 

of view ; 
Old fashioned types must stand aside and make 

way for the new. 
Thank heaven for the change that's come and 

fascinating fads, 
For me, the merry outdoor girl who emulates the 

lads. 

— W. H. Ballou. 



103 



THE. SONG OF THE. LAI^K. 

Suggested by Jules Breton's painting, "The Song of the Lark." 

The peasant girl, her feet all bare. 
With her rustic grace, has a nobie air. 
She's queen of the stubble-field and she, 
In mind, is free as the lark is free. 
Her thought, above all meager things, 
Is soaring with the lark that sings. 
No hampered child of the city streets, 
Who bows his head whomsoe'er he meets, 
Who toils for a pittance with little rest, 
But should envy the freedom of his breast. 
She's the child of nature; vice does not lure; 
She's clothed with a life that's pure. 
The wholesomeness of her atmosphere 
Does more for man than his logic drear. 
Who delves in books' philosophic lore, 
Sees nature's problems — but little more. 
'Tis God's own child who has eyes to see 
What is disclosed to the eye of philosophy. 
The artist who dabbles with color and brush 
Sees but the reflection of nature's flush. 
The skilled musician knows not pure tone ; 
He hears but the resonance of his own. 
'Tis the peasant girl, as she hurries along, 
Who hears the lark's good morning song. 
She hears it with gladness; her heart is gay; 

104 



The Song of the Lark. 

All nature greets her in festal array. 
The lark makes her world a world of song. 
His notes in her heart sing her whole life long. 
She's the true musician, artist and seer, 
She looks upon nature with vision clear. 
The lark brings her day without shade or 

sorrow, 
And crowns each day with a sweet tomorrow. 
He gives a joy only natare can, 
A boon sent down from heaven to man. 
O little lark, sing on ! sing on ! 
The country dark new life will don. 
The tones thou 'It hurl from thy tiny heart 
Peace will unfurl and new joy impart. 

—■Ada M. Griggs. 



10b 



OLIVER MARCY. 

When spring time comes the flowers will miss 

their friend, 
And weep the dew drops of their silent tears. 
And those strange specimens of rocks and shells 
And fossils that in the far dawn of time 
Bestirred with life, which those devoted hands 
Collected and arranged with nameless care — 
How they will miss their keeper 1 Not a star 
That looked down on him from the evening sky, 
Nor drop of water in the lake's expanse, 
Nor grain of sand upon the shore, nor stone, 
Nor leaf not any kind of living thing. 
But was to our beloved Marcy's thought 
An open book filled with things new and old. 
Friend, we shall miss thee ! Yes, the morning sun 
And evening twilight of the summer days 
Will miss thee from the old familiar walks. 
And aged trees where thou didst watch the birds 
And squirrels, and didst study all their ways, 
Will sigh for thee with voices of the wind 
Among their branches. What unnumbered forms 
Of living, moving creeping things will miss 
Thy footstep from the forest or the field ! 
O faithful lover of the works of God, 
Our hearts go with thee to the heavenly hills, 



106 



Oliver Marcy. 

Where trees of life, and rivers of delight, 
And stones of sapphire, and celestial pearls, 
And birds of paradise that never die, 
Now bid thee welcome to thy Father's house. 

— Milton S. Terry . 



107 



LOVE.'S LULLABY. 

"Come, tired one, lie here and rest — 
I'll lull you to sleep on the long, long swell, 
And waken you soon, when winter is gone, and 
the earth is new." 

So the lake seemed to whisper, and sigh, and 

entreat, 
As I watched her surge and flow. 

The swish of the ice was the rustle of silk. 

And the waters dripping were tinkling bells or 

silver strings 
In distant music. What yearning it brings 1 
And I feel her breath and hear her say : 

**Oome, dear heart, lay your head on my breast, 
I'll soothe you to sleep, a soft, sweet sleep, 
And waken you soon, when night is gone, and 
the day is new." 

— Harold B. Shinn. 



108 



SILAS. 

Old Si-up-on-the-mountain 'd take his cheer 
Out on the porch, an' if the day was clear, 
He'd see the country twenty miles around— 
Sometimes he'd swore that he could see the sound- 
Tho' he'd allow he didn't care ter do 
No work but set thar an' enji' the view. 

But ez his Ian' was mostly sand an' stun 
The town people had had a pile er fun 
'Bout Si an' his farmin' — where the grass 
Was thin enough ter let 'er gopher pass, 
An' in a hole there wer'n't no gettin' to — 
He must be sort er foolish, were their view. 

But, when a Chicago feller come erlong 
An' seen that view, it tuk him mighty strong. 
An' Silas set his price— by gosh, he got it, too ! 
Nigh fourteen thousand dollars fer that view- 
Silas had the everlasting sand 
To ask him more 'en if 'twas medder land. 

Then old Si went up higher, to the top, 
An' got some Ian' thet never raised a crop; 
But ez ter that he 'lowed he didn't care. 
He wanted scenery, light, an' atmosphair. 
Now, he gets his interest, when it's due, 
An' sits there smokin' an' enjies the view 

— Charles Dickens. 



109 



'OVE.R THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY." 

"Over the hills and far away" 

So in our childhood we 
Sighed for wonders over and yon 

In lands we could not see. 

Longed to mount the mystical steed 
That should bear us far away — 

Impatient of hours that would not speed, 
Lo ! we are there today. 

' ' Over the hills and far away, ' ' 

Long years ago we crossed. 
And now with dim and tender eyes, 

Mourning a land we've lost. 

We look away from the other side 

Older and sadder — aye. 
Wiser, perhaps — but longing yet 

For the realm of "far away." 

And the old child-heart to the mystic words 
Responds with the old-time thrill, 

We are children always longing to fare 
Away o'er the purple hill. 

"Over the hills and far away" — 

Forever and aye the same — 
But ah ! the rim of misty land 

We shall never cross again. 

— Alice Ormes. 



110 



A COMPLAINT. 

One year ago today, love, 
One year ago today. 
Blue was the sky above, love 
Bright was the tenth of May ; 
I knew one heart was true, love, 
I thought that both were so. 
How much we fellows learn, lovCs 
As older, love, we grow ! 

I thought thy little head, love, 
That nestled on my breast, 
Had such a trusting air, love, 
How could I then have guessed 
Your little head was false, love, 
Your girlish heart untrue? 
How could I disbelieve, love, 
Your winning eyes of blue? 

Your wee hand all a-tremble, love, 
Your words so kind and sweet. 
How could I ever think, love, 
I was such "easy meat?" 
You're smiling at me now, love. 
And guying me, that's true. 
What's that you're saying now, love? 
The deuce! It wasn't you! 

— J. L. Brown. 



Ill 



A LAUGH IN CHURCH. 

She sat on the sliding cushion, 

The dear wee woman of four; 
Her feet in their shiny slippers 

Hung dangling above the floor. 
She meant to be good ; she had promised ; 

And so, with her big brown eyes, 
She stared at the meeting-house windows, 

And counted the crawling flies. 

She looked far up at the preacher ; 

But she thought of the honeybees 
Droning away in the blossoms 
E That whitened the cherry trees. 
She thought of the broken basket, 
t "Where, curled in a dusky heap. 
Three sleek, round puppies, with fringy ears. 

Lay snuggled and fast asleep. 

Such soft, warm bodies to cuddle, 
r Such queer little hearts to beat. 
Such swift red tongues to kiss you, 
h Such sprawling, cushiony feet ! 
She could feel in her clasping fingers 
i< The touch of the satiny skin. 
And cold, wet nose exploring 
\The dimples under her chin. 



112 



A Laugh in Church. 

Then a sudden ripple of laughter 

Ran over her parted lips 
So swift that she could not catch it 

With her rosy finger tips. 
The people whispered, "Bless the child!" 

As each one woke from a nap ; 
But the dear wee woman hid her face 

For shame, in her mother's lap. 

— Emily Huntington Miller. 



113 



THE COMING OF THE, SHIP. 

A ship is coming proudly o'er the blue 

And crowds of people line the shore and wait ; 
They strain their eyes to see — I wonder who 

Shall be the one to claim the precious freight? 
I ne'er have sent a ship across the sea, 

I have but idled all the years away, 
And therefore no proud ship sails home to me — 

Hopeless I watch with them that hope, today. 

-—S. E. Kiser. 



114 



SUNSHINE,. 

What think you? One day, when the soft autumn 

leaves 
Like bright broken rainbows fell flickering down, 
And the sweet southern breeze, with a gay little 

laugh, 
Dared sport with her curls, half gold and half 

brown ; 
There, right on her cheek, where that dear dimple 

hides, 
That hardened old sinner, the brazen-faced sun. 
In my very presence, with boldness complete, 
Laid his warm golden kisses , I dared not give 

one. 
And she? O, she smiled, and her happy blue eyes 
Seemed coverts for angels from fairyland fled. 
And T? O, I? Well, what think you I did? 
A cloud hid the sun, I shone in his stead. 

— Eva B, Froula. 



Ui 



THE KODAK. 

I travel into foreign lands, 
O'er mountains, plain and hill; 

I look within old castle walls, 
And ruins quaint and still. 

I catch my views of busy men 

In every garb and mood, 
No chance for feigned innocence. 

Or studied attitude. 

Not what the world would like to seem 

But what it is I see ; 
I look beneath all outward shams 

And stale hypocrisy. 

My observation faultless is, 

My memory as well ; 
And every secret I can learn 

My business is to tell. 

And so by my impartial course 

Some enemies I've made. 
Though other gossips may give out, 

I still can ply my trade. 

— James Potter. 



116 



A TOUR DE FORCE.. 

This is the song 

Of the Charles McYea, 
That stuck in the sand 

One day. 

That stuck in the sand 
On the Michigan strand, 

Not eight hundred feet from land, 
One day. 

Here's to the crew, 

Of the Charles McYea, 
Who worked so well 

One day. 

Who worked so well 
Without saying sh! s-"h-eU" 
When hawsers broke and plummets fell. 
That passengers longed the tale to tell, 
One day. 

A marvelous tale 

Of the Charles McYea, 
That shipped a crew 

One day. 

A saintly crew. 

Not one of whom knew 



117 



A Tour de Force. 

That a. good strong phrase of a deep dark blue 
Is a sailor's talisman, tried and true, 
'Gainst evils unseen and evils in view 
And e'en for a tug may stand 'n lieu, 
One day. 

So the gentle crew 
And the Charles McVea, 
Stayed stuck in the sand, 
One day. 

Stayed stuck in the sand, 
While the captain planned. 
And the linesman blistered his horny hand 
And the anxious passenger eagerly scanned 
The dim horizon or looked to the land, 
Where the white hills firmly, mockingly stand, 
Tempting and cool by the sea-breeze fanned, 
All day. 

At last, help came 

To the Charles McVea, 
Help and good luck 

One day. 

Help and good luck. 

But not by the pluck 

Of the valliant ' ' Pup, ' ' nor the Saugatuck, 

But a sober old * ' salt, ' ' who had run amuck 

As many times ; or on sandbars stuck. 

Or deadly hidden rocks had struck, 



118 



A Tour de Force. 

As any gay, roving, jovial "buck," 
Who splices a hawser or sets a truck, 
Today. 

So were he not there, 

The Charles McVea, 
Had sounded her knell, 

That day. 

Had sounded her knell, 
But he simply said — well, 
You know what he said, 
I need not tell — 

And the ship slid off on a rising swell ; 
As easy and free as a gypsum bell 
Swings in the wind, the a-foresaid shell, 
Leaped on the wave, with a spirit to quell 
Every imp that in Michigan sandbars dwell, 
Today. 

Thus the innocent crew 

And the Charles McVea, 

Got out of the sand. 

One day, 

— Harri§tt B. Ely, 



119 



A FOREST PICTURE. 

Soft sunbeams dance among the moss and ferns ; 
The breezes whisper as they wander by ; 
Robins and wood-doves twitter in the leaves, 
And pearly drifts of cloud are gliding high. 
The brooklet ripples 'gainst its grassy bank ; 
The purple violet nestles in the green ; 
A dreamy stillness haunts the wooded dell, 
A silent loneliness o'erspreads the scene. 

— Gertrude L, Chappell, 



lao 



ODE TO GRANT. 

Aa the glint of the Sun on the crest ot the sea 
With its gleam and its sparkle holds proud jubilee. 
So a people awaken, illumed by the flame 
Of love and endearment which encircles thy name. 
As forests are bended in the breath of the blast, 
As waves to the shore come surging and fast; 
So the banners of treason were torn from the skv, 
By the power of a purpose which gleamed in 

thine eye. 
As our Lord on the deep, bade the waters be still. 
So wild uproar was crushed at command of thy 

will. 
Thy presence stilled tumult, confusion did cease, 
Joy came to the nation on pinions of peace. 
From the East to West the Sun in its course 
Gives verdure and landscape both beauty and 

force. 
So reversing its course from the West to the Sea, 
Grant marched with a splendor that made a land 

free. 
Devotion and courage and a faith, so sublime. 
Unknown among Rulers in all epochs of time 
Made thee immortal, and were ever the charm, 
The key to thy power, the strength of thine arm. 
As the guest of Dominion, while circling the earth, 
In thy wanderings, liberty found a new birth. 

121 



Ode to Grant. 

Old Egypt and the Ind and the Isles of the Sea 
Uncovered, in homage to the land that is free. 
Kings came from their thrones, waiving customs 

of state, 
To greet the unsoeptered, who stood at their gate. 
Grand tokens of triumph, for a nation now free ; 
A Republic incarnate, was greeted in thee. 

— E. S. Taylor. 



122 



KNOWLE,DGE. 

A trembling youth upon the shore 

Where ignorance and wisdom meet, 
A step — the crested waters pour 

Their store of treasure at his feet ; 
Once more the shallows deeper grow ; 

Stronger he revels in the spray ; 
A plunge to jfind the depths below — 

But fathomless it stretches far away. 

— Isabella Fowler. 



123 



A SUMMER EVENING IN ARCADY. 

We glide by the edge of the grassy sedge, 

Along by the bending trees. 
With rythmic dash the wavelets splash 

And they're blown by the western breeze. 

They sparkle white in the mellow light 

Of a rising summer moon, 
While, as we float, against the boat 

They beat a liquid tune. 

With a ' * clip-clip-clip, ' ' 

And a ' * rip-rip-ripple, ' ' 
Then * * chunk-chunk-chunk, ' * 

'Tis a cadence triple. 

A swelling sigh from the trees close by 
Betrays the breeze-elf's wooing. 

Then the leaves all shout and dance about 
As they listen to his suing. 

With a "crinkle" and a* 'crack,'* 

And a * ' clat-clat-clatter, ' * 
Then they rustle to themselves 

As they gossip o'er the matter. 

From farther back in the deepening black 
The screech-owl's hoot comes mellow, 

A song of cooing dove 
Is whistling to its fellow. 

124 



A Summer Evening in Arcady* 

With a "hoot-hoot-hoot" 

And a * 'coo-coo-cooing,** 
The bosom of their mates 

With tenderness imbuing. 

Within che boat no different note 

The harmony offends. 
Capid steers. No speech he brooks ; 

But slowly toward secluded nooks, 
With chuckling smile and knowing looks, 

The craft a-gliding sends. 

With a "clip-clip-clip," 

And a "rip-rip-ripple," 
Then ' ' chunk-chunk-ohunk, ' ' 

'Tis a cadence triple. 

— Barry Gilbert. 



125 



WHEN ANNIE PLAYS THE MANDOLIN. 

Now Gertie, put er way dat paper. 

Put dat ole guitar erway, 
An don't yo' cut no sich caper, 

In dis yer house no mo' today! 

Lisen — couse I lubs yo' music, 

An I'll lub hit till I'se gray, 
But ter-night I mus' excus hit, 

Oaus Annie's gwine ter play. 

Now, I'se heard some pow'ful fiddlin'. 

Sum good er nuff for king an queen. 
But ter me hits jes like piddlin' 
Since I've heard dat mandolin. 

She jes takes me back ter Dixie, 

To de fiels of wavin' corn, 
Totes me back ter ole Kentucky, 

To de spot whar I was born. 

Now, Gertie, g'way frum dat piano ; 
Lock de thing up yo' can't sing; 
Come Annie, play ma ole Kentucky — 
Lordy, she's dun broke a string! 

— Richard Cecil Rogers, 



186 



THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 

The tale of pity by our Savior told 

A moral for our day may still unfold, 

For life's rough path on which we all must go 

Is like the path that led to Jericho, 

Many its pitfalls for unwary feet, 

And many thieves and robbers we may meet, 

And many recreant officers-of-law 

Who share the spoil, not hold the thieves in awe 

Thank God ! we also meet the generous friend 

With ready hand the helpless to defend. 

Perhaps the man almost of life bereft, 

Whom heartless priest and timid Levite left, 

Succored at last by a Samaritan, 

His after a life spent on a different plan. 

What though the priest bore Aaron's sacred name 

And Levite boasted long prescriptive claim. 

The simple fellow saw not means but ends, 

And valued most those who were most his friends ; 

And so, perhaps, he left the Jewish fold 

And with Samaritans himself enrolled. 

Perhaps some modern agencies of good 
May to the church bear a like attitude, 
Though they may lack her ancient stately spires, 
Her vested priests and robed and chanting choirs, 



127 



The Good Samaritan. 

Lack sermons formed to please a classic taste, 
And liturgies by time refined and graced, 
Though untrained orators may meet and bawl 
In broken English in some smoky * ' hall. ' ' 
Better the eloquence of those rude tongues 
Upholding human rights, denouncing wrongs, 
Than polished sermons where no soul is seen, 
Than the most graceful, meaningless routine. 

If workingmen the church's claims reject, 
Too oft the cause is found in her neglect. 
She sees the feeble suffer from the strong, 
But raises not her voice against the wrong ; 
She sees the rich man juggle with the laws, 
But does not champion the poor man's cause. 

'—Charles William Pearson. 



128 



THE BREATH OF THE MORNING, 

Like an incense to God is the breath of the morn, 
As it wakens in nature a hymn to His praise, 
And the fair blooming flowers look up in the 

dawn, 
While the twitter of song birds is heard from the 

trees. 

'Tis the breath of the morn in the shadowy pines 
As they join in the song with a strain sad and 

low, 
And its tenderness often, subdues and refines. 
When the glad note triumphant is heard from the 

hill. 

'Tis the breath of the morn by the deep sounding 

sea, 
In the choral of nature its solemn tones swell j 
All life is a symphony, mighty pnd free 
In the glad breath of morning, the herald of day. 

—Atigie E. Seabrooke^ 



129 



THE DUMB POE.T. 

• 
That littlo bird on yonder troo 

Lifts up his tiny throat, and showers forth 

His eostaoy of praise to Thee, 

O Lord. 

Wliy is this power denied to me? 

They've locked a soul within this breast. 

And lost the key. 

The world's so beautiful to me — 
The little flower that nestles to the sod, 
The gauzy dragon fly, the boo, 
Whose suit 
The flaming yellow squash flower hears with glee, 
God's filled my heart with rapturous praise 
And left me mute. 

The sunshine through the forest bough 
Slips and gently prints a tender kiss 

Upon the soft groen moss below ; 

And then 
The sea croons o'er its night song soft and 
low, 
Laugh, sings, roars — bellows forth with easeless 
flow, 

The many moods of men. 

Why can't I sing in measures swift and slow 
The songs that well-nigh burst my heart and brain? 



130 



The Dumb Poet. 

But no, that's not God's plan. 
The music in my heart that surges through, 
Is treasured up for God alone. 
Not man. 

The love that's in an anxious mother's face, 
The faith that wins for toilworn man the race, 

The hope of the soldier, dying in his place, 
Such thoughts as these the angels set to song 

And hourly hymn His throne. 
""Cecil E. Zimmerman. 



131 



THE YELLOW KID'S PET. 

This is the song of the cigarette- 

That smelly thing — the Yellow Kid's pet. 

It bleached the blush on his youthful face 
It hollowed his chest and stole his grace; 
It stained his fingers and tainted his breath; 
It sapped his manhood and hastened his death. 

In life he looked like a lemon peel ; 
He gained no flesh from a hearty meal ; 
He puffed and sucked as he went his way, 
Inhaling smoke and soot each day. 

Soon he looked like a horse that draws a carette, 
Still he pulled and tugged at his vile cigarette ; 
And now tho' the Yellow Kid's dead and gone 
He's smoking yet, and will smoke right on; 
He's smoking yet, 

And will smoke right on ! 
— A, S. Alexander, 



132 



Tfi£ NEW AUTOMOBILi:. 

What is that creature that I see 

A-coming down the street? 
It looks much like a hitching-post ; 

It moves. Where are its feet? 

It seems to have a head and hat. 

And arms methinks I see. 
A hitching post with arms and head? 

What may this creature be? 

It comes much nearer, and I spy 

Great buttons in two rows. 
A flopping train brings up the rear. 

And sweeps where'er it goes. 

The moving object is at hand — 

This is no idle joke — 
It is a woman, lately clad, 

In "automobile" cloak. 

— Harry E. Weesi, 



r^ 



ARE ALL OUR HEROES DEAD? 

They did not fight as other soldiers. When we fired a 
volley they advanced instead of going back. The more we 
fired the nearer they came to us. We are not used to fight- 
ing with men who act so.— Statement of a Spanish prisoner 
taken during Wood's charge, June 24, 1898. 

Can they [foreigners] not see that men do not fight like 
this [in our civil war] for a mere shop-till?— James Russell 

Lowell. 

Are all our heroes dead? 
Is American courage fled? 
Men told us so 
Three months ago. 
Ere the word of "war" was said. 

Are our city boys all dudes — 
Shopkeepers, weaklings, prudes? 

IVIen told us so 

Three month's ago, 
And warned us 'gainst all feuds. 

Are they "holiday soldiers" all — 
Just for dress parade and ball — 

With their guns so bright 

And their suits so "tight," 
As they spring to the bugle call? 

Do the sons of this Yankee sod 
All worship the dollar god? 

134 



Are All Our Heroes Dead. 

We have heard for years 
These foreigner's sneers 
At the land of pork and cod. 

Ah ! stand on this Cuban dune 
On the twenty-fourth of June, 

And see Wood's men 

(And their actions then), 
And you'll sing a different tune. 

Hear the shriek of each Mauser hall! 
See one out of ten men fall! 

With never a chance 

For a single glance 
At the foe, with its cuckoo call. 

See "Teddy" Roosevelt's "fops" 

As they spring through the chaparal tops ! 

Mere "knights of the pen" — 

Mere football men — 
These lads whom the lead ne'er stops. 

See Wood march down the line ! 
See Capron's saber shine! 

With never a halt 

'Neath the leaden salt, 
They spring toward the hidden line. 

See the awe-struck Spaniard run ! 
Hear the "pop" of each Yankee gun' 

Mark the total rout; 

Hear the victors shout 
In the struggle so well begun. 



135 



Are All Our Heroes Dead. 

See the trench, with its forty dead, 
With" that dude, Fish" at the head I 
Ah!" dudes" like these 
Shall have knight's degrees 
In the roll by Washington led. 

See Hobson's immortal eight 
As they enter hell's yawning gate 
While the great gun's yells 
Sound their funeral knells — 
Till they rise in spite of fate. 

Ah ! Lowell was right when he said 
Of our heroes then living and dead 

That men don't fight 

Like that for the right 
To deal in bacon and bread. 

'Tis a lie, that we worship gold! 
'Tis a lie, that our courage is coldl 

Let the carpers that sneered 

And said we feared 
Forever their silence hold. 

— J. Scott Clark, 



136 



DE MO'NIN* DOVE. 

When de sky is all a-glimmer wiv de dawnin', 

An' de mists is gittin' up above the crick; 
When yuh firs' blinks yo peepahs en de mawnin'. 

An' fin' yo' heaht is heavy lak, an' sick, 
Wiv de care o' dis weary life erroun' yuh 

S' thick yo' t'ink dey's nuffin' mo' dat's good, 
Dey's one kind o' balm '11 sholy cyoh yuh— 

Hit comes from ovah yondeh en de wood ; 
* Tomorrow — coo — coo. ' ' 

Oh, yuh des wantuh lie 'n let huh soak yuh 

Twell you's all kind o' guzzlin' wiv de soun', 
Yu' soul so drunk ef someun come an' poke yuh 

Yo'd nevah guess dey's anyone erroun'. 
Den yuh gets up an' goes out en de sunshine. 

An you' heaht feels sof an' happy lak de day; 
Ev'y li'l while yuh draps yo' hoe ter listen 

T' dat muhmah en de timbah far away, 
* ' Tomor — row, coo — coo. ' ' 

Dey's some folks dat says de soun' am 'gub'rous, 
Dat hit moan so, an' meks you' sperrit sad. 

Yuh kin 'pend upon hit sech people's dubyous, 
Dey's sumpin' on dey min dat hu'ts 'em bad; 

Kase ter me — why dat li'l note's ez soothin' 
Ez er ole mammy singin' en de dahk ; 

187 



De Mo'nin' Dove. 

Hit alius sayin' wait twell t'morrer, 
Dey's bettah times comin' den — now liahkl 

• * Tomor — row, coo — coo — . ' ' 

But de days when I goes ter see ma' Dinah, 

An' we floats wiv de windin' ob de stream — 
Sholy heaven ain' got anything much finah 

'N dem joys, ovah which I daily dream! 
De breeze whispahs lub-words to de branches, 

An' de grasses bend to kiss de glassy tide, 
'N me — h'm — well, I sits dar wiv m' honey, 

An' de ole call er ringin' close beside; 

* * Tomor — row, coo — coo — . ' ' 

En de dahk time I los' mah po' ole mothah, 

An' de worl's a lonely desert all erroun' ; 
When hit feel lak wiv sorrow I would smother. 

When m' heaht's theh wiv huh below de groun; 
While I set heah alone bef oh de cabin, 

Come er sweet soun' a-flotin' cross de co'n, 
Hit seem lak ole mammy's voice er callin' ! 

Dar now, chile, I'll be wiv yuh en de mo'n. 
"Tomor— row, coo— coo. 

— A. G. Terry, 



188 



BEFORE AND AFTER. 

Mounted we were one August day, 
We rode the country through; 

We saw strange sights along the way, 
From morning's dawn till dew. 

It was a bleaching summer day, 
The sun scorched out the grain, 

And beardy farmers in the field 
Were praying hard for rain. 

Anon a city we passed through. 

None sought us to detain. 
For preachers, smiths, barkeepers, all, 

Were praying hard for rain. 

Again when on a country road. 
Black clouds hung o'er the sky. 

The rain in drenching torrents fell. 
Earth was all else but dry. 

The farmer growled about the house, 
One hundred oaths he'd sworn; 

**If this *ere pesky rain keeps up. 
The weeds will choke my corn.'* 

And next we heard a city man 

Unfold a woeful case, 
Because when God the farmer blessed 

He must soak all the race. 

— L E. Springer, 



139 



THE DAISY, THE FOUR O'CLOCK AND THE 

MAIDEN. 

I. 

"The world is all wrong," the four o'clock said, 
As he woke with a start in his little brown bed, 
But the daisy smiled when she opened her eyes, 
And saw in his glory the old sun rise. 
"Oh, this world is a beautiful world, "she said, 
And she gently nodded her dainty head. 

II. 

The four o'clock trembled with anger and scorn, 
"You will wish some day you were never born. 
When the rain beats fierce and the sun shines hot, 
And you wither and dry, or else you rot ; 
Or, clutched by a greedy child, you are torn, , 
And left on the ground to die forlorn. " 

III. 

Then a maiden came with a step so light, 
And she saw the daisy so pure and white. 
She plucked it gently, and whispered low, 
"Now Daisy, tell me if it is so. 
He loyes me, Daisy?" the first petal fell, 
"He loves me not. Is it truth you tell?" 



140 



The Daisy, the Four O'ClocK and the Maiden. 

ly. 

And slowly the petals, one by one, 
Were plucked by the maiden whose hair in the sun 
Glistened and shown like fibres of gold. 
But at last the daisy her tale had told. 
And the maiden kissed the daisy's head. 
'*0h, this world is a beautiful world," she said. 

— Lilian Bayne. 



141 



PROCRASTINATION. 

I meant to visit a dying friend 

But I pat it off too long ; 
I wrote a letter I meant to send, 

But I put it off too long 
So now I'm haunted by a ghost 

Of things I meant to do, 
Things I wanted and meant to do, 

But I put them off too long. 

There were duties small and duties great 

But I put them off too long ; 
Alas ! I find repentance too late, 

When I put them off too long ; 
So now I'm haunted by a ghost 

Of things I meant to do. 
The things I wanted and meant to do. 

But I put them off too long. 

The poem unfinished I meant to write. 

But I put it off too long ; 
The thought was gone I tried to indite, 

For I put it off too long. ; 
So now I'm haunted by a ghost. 

Of the things I meant to do 
The things I wanted and meant to do 

But I put them off too long. 



143 



Procrastination. 

The friend is lost that I loved so well, 

Because I put off so long. 
The reason I always meant to tell 

But I put it off too long ; 
So now I'm haunted by a ghost 

Of the things I meant to do, 
The things I wanted and meant to do 

But I put them off too long. 

What if, at last when my life is gone, 

I should find things have gone wrong, 
My final account should be over drawn 

As I put it off too long? 
Will I be frightened by the ghost 

Of the things I meant to do. 
The things I wanted and meant to do 

But I put them off too long? 

—Mrs. C. E. C. Winchell. 



ii3 



LAKE MICHIGAN AT EVE.NING. 

The western glow is loath to leave you 

Lying ruddy on your breast ; 
The drifting clouds drop shadows down 

To soothe your rest. 

Where late were sails, soft skies appear 
In rippling splashes mirrored deep ; 

The weary wind sinks with the sun, 
And going bids you sleep. 

— Samuel Merwin. 



144 



HER. BLUE SHIRTcWAIST. 

Of gowns my lady has a score, 
Each time I see her there are more, 
The one of all that I adore, 
Is her blue shirt-waist. 

With its mannish collar white, 
With its Ascot tied just right, 
Held by my frater pin so bright. 
On her blue shirt-waist. 

She says that half I say is "gush," 
And that I like it since— but hush ! 
Still the only one that doesn't crush. 
Is her blue shirt-waist. 

— Helen Arthur. 



145 



MIRACLE.. 

Great God, I bow in deep humility, 

I'or I have faltered long in anxious doubt ; 
I have beheld the snow-capped heights, the sea, 

And stood and watched the timid stars peep out. 

And asked myself : * ' Shall I believe that One, 
However great, hath caused these things to be? 

Shall I have childish faith to think the sun 
That sends his slanting beam in search of me 

Is guided by a Hand, however strong? 

Can mere Divinity hurl down the long. 
Defiant bolt that rives the groaning tree. 

And hush the winds and set the comet free?'* 

Today I look up at the arching sky, 

And ask my soul : * * Why should I doubting 
stand? 
May not One in some awful state on high, 

Hold o'er the universe a master hand?" 

Is aught that faith would teach me to believe 
Incredulous, or for the weak since I 

Have heard earth's greatest, calmest nation 
grieve 
Because a poor, vile fool, so small that by 

His very meanness he was hidden, struck? 

Since this has been I can but dumbly pluck 
Doubt from my heart, and with the stricken cry 

To God, immutable and silent, "Why?" 

— S. E. Kiser. 



140 



SUNBE.AM AND SHADOW. 

The morning sunshine greets my love 
Far down the blooming valley, 

The swallows greet him from above, 
The flowers from earth's green floor. 

And floating musically 

A down the smiling valley 

The matin bells salute my love— 
For me they peal no more. 

How oft we walked, my love and I, 
Down through the fragrant meadow, 

And where the gauze-winged insects fly 
Along the brooklet's shore. 

But creeping through the meadow 

There followed me a shadow ; 

My lover fled in fear, and I 
Shall greet him nevermore. 

And when into the purple west 

The sun-orb sinks in glory 
The vesper bells sing thee to rest— 

For me they chime no more. 
Let not my heart's sad story 
Destroy thy sunset's glory; 
The sunbeam thine, the shadow mine. 

So be it evermore. 

— Hamilton Bishop. 



147 



TO A MORNING GLORY 

Flushed spirit of the dewy night's repose, 
When I behold thy sweet simplicity, 
Smiling at morn with artless purity 

In humble nooks, into my soul there flows 

A joy strange felt, and all enraptured grows 
My being, until, mute with ecstacy. 
Far down into thy gladdening mystery 

I look, and see my weary weight of woes. 

For in the melting tints of thy deep chalice, 
Sprung from the roadside into faultless beauty, 
I see again a soul whose priceless worth 

Dares to erect its own God-purposed palace, 
Even beside the dusty paths of duty, 
And reign with native goodness on the earth. 

— J. C, Nicholson. 



148 



TO AN OLD OAK. 

E'en when the tiny nut that held the first, 
Dropt quietly into the rich, dark soil, 
'Twas in the plan of the Great God of all, 
That thy bright leaves, thy green crest lifted 

high, 
Thy sturdy trunk, and all thy noble form 
bhould be, some day far distant, loved by me. 
Should cause my eyes with joy to rest on thee. 
And so increase earth's gifts of God to me. 
Thou hast given this grace to many, thou hast 

granted to me ; 
But none, perhaps, besides me shall extol thy 

memory. 
Stern Death, remorseless enemy, spares nothing 

that we love, 
Upon the cold, white snow tonight, lie boughs 

that waved above. 
And I'm lonely, sad and silent, for I feel a friend 

is gone, 
As 'mong thy great dead boughs tonight, 
I hear the strong wind moan. 

— Frances E. Willard. 



149 



FRANCES E. WILLARD. 

Oft have we seen her on her throne of power, 
While eager multitudes enchanted hung 
Oblivious of the swiftly passing hour, 
Chained by the Orphean magic of her tongue. 

That tongue was silent when we saw her last, 
For in her shroud her worn out body lay, 
While hour by hour the long procession passed 
The last sad tribute of respect to pay. 

The aged beneath the weight of years, 
The young in all their beauty and their pride, 
The rich and poor in common shed their tears, 
For she, a sister to mankind, had died. 

Yet Grief was not the only spirit here ; 

Faith, Hope, and Love, the great immortal three. 

Gave strength to hearts that bowed beneath their 

care. 
And heaven seemed nearer than before to be. 

Flowers of all hues in emblems manifold, 
The rainbow, harp, the crown, the ripened sheaf, 
The shield, the cross, the book, their story told, 
Of service, conquest, joy more than of grief. 

Her name henceforth is sacred and will shine 
Bright in the list of those by love made great. 
Type and example of that more divine 
Humanity for which we long and wait. 

— Charles W. Pearson. 



150 



IN THE, NIGHT-TIME. 

The moon unveils her beauty in the east, 

The sun has faded in the rosy west ; 
Now toil-worn, weary man, and wandering beast 

Are slowly wending to a place of rest. 
Each bird in silence hastens to its nest. 

And now the starry gems in heaven's deep, 
Look down like radiant faces of the blest 

As silently a loving watch they keep 

O'er those they loved on earth, while undisturbed 

they Bleep. 

'—George Shorb. 



.'51 



EVENING. 

In waning splendor sinks the winter sun, 
And 'neath His hand of whom she works the 
will, 
Nature, in peace that follows duty done, 

Is still. 
In this the winter of my life, I ask. 

While in the west my sun is sinking still, 
That peace may come with having wrought His 
task, 

His will. 

— Grace Shuman, 



152 



THE WISHES. 

[After Feiiz Dahn.] 
King Stein lies hid beneath his hill, 

Four sons for him are mourning, 
Alone in the hall they are sitting still, 

Their hearts to their heritage turning*. 
Blond Halfdan strokes his flaxen beard ; 

His face in his shield reflected ; 
Black Helgi, with wild eyes and wierd. 

Muses of wars expected : 
Hako, the ruddy, his father's wealth 

E'en now in thought is spending; 
The youngest, sadly, as by stealth, 

His father's sword is bending, 
Of its own accord the oaken door 

Sprang wide — not a dog bayed defianc8-=» 
And before the brothers stood Wegafur, 

Their father's stay and reliance. 
In wanderer's garb the old man spake: 

"Princes, give ear attentive! 
Year wishes bolder bounds shall take 

With this as their incentive — 
Well have ye heard of my magic power, 

By it was your father protected. 
And I promised him in his death hour 

His sons should not be neglected ; 
Ye shall wish, to the wisest wish be given 

Fulfillment ; now wish as the heart shall move 1" 

153 



The Wishes. 

And Half dan cried. * ' Of all things 'neath heaven 

The sweetest is gentle woman's love! 
The guerdon of gentle woman's grace, 

That grant me, enchanter hoary. ' ' 
"Love is a phantom and false of face,' 

Said Helgi, "I pant for glory! 
Give me, beyond all monarchs, famel" 

But Hako scoffed the ruddy ; 
' ' Glory is but an empty name I 

Granter of wishes, grant to me 
The red, red gold in countless hoard.'* 

Then spoke the old man thoughtfully: 
"Well, Harold, brown-locks, thou hast no word? 

What tears stand in thine eye?" 
"My father's sword is my one desire, 

That here in these hands I embrace" 
"Thou shalt wield it, worthy of thy sire, 

What would 'st thou more ?" with searching face 
The old man asks. 

"Naught, save of thee 
When evening sun is lowest 

That thou in my hall step quietly, 
Thy face benignant showest ; 

For there lies housed upon thy brow 
The unsearchable, in awful seeming. 

And from thy lips doth wisdom flow, 
And from thy grey eyes truth is beaming. 

Then with this sword I pledge to me 
Of earth I ask no other booty. " 
"Hail to thee, Harold, 'tis granted to thee 

And thine shall be all Beauty, 

154 



The Wishes. 

A trusty sword for a loyal knight, 

A faithful longing for high emprise, 
A spirit, wing'd for the eagle's flight 

And childlike tears in the gentle eyes; 
Woman's caresses thou shalt win, 

And the hark-strain of honor. 
Let the gold, in glittering stream, flow in 

Lo 1 with thee hast thou gained their donor. 
With this kiss, I, Odin of Asgard, 

Elect thee my heart-chosen son. 
The Valkyries, shall lead thee to me as reward 

When thy thousand victories are wonl" 

— Anne Maude Be^en. 



ISS 



YON aiDE. THE GOWDEN GATE.* 

It's a lightsome, cheerie warld, 

Wi' pleasures unco sweet, 
Are its honors and its riches 

Strewn lavish at yer feet? 
Tho' the path be braw and loveiit — 

Life free frae want and hate — 
Yet sic things will a' seem sma' like 

Yon side the Gowden Gate I 

Is't a dreary, weary warld, 

A rugged, thorny road? 
Dae ye sometimes feel dejecket? 

Bowed down beneath yer load? 
A' yer toil will soon be over, 

Then trusting, pray and wait. 
For a rest in peace is promised, 

Yon side the Gowden Gate ! 

Are ye left alane and helplecs 

Wi' neither kith nor kin? 
Dae ye ken bath cauld and hunger. 

Or feel the ban o' sin? 
Look ye up through clouds to sunshine ; 

Rise fra yer sorry state ! 
For be sure a Friend will greet ye, 

Yon side the Gowden Gate ! 



156 



Yorv Side the Gowden Gate. 

Are yer e'en a' weet and weary 

Wi weepin' for the bairn 
That the Father gathered tae Him 

Awa frae pain and hairm? 
Dinna mourn sae aefn', mither, 

JuBt trust a wee and wait, 
For the bairn will meet ye smilin*, 

Yon side the Gowden Gatel 

Are ye near the gloomy valley, 

And fear tae tak' the road? 
Is yer hairt a' torn wi' terror, 

Tae leave this life's abode? 
Pit yer hand intil His Strang ane 

He'll never Bay "too late, " 
But He'll tail' ye gently wi' Kim, 

Yon side the Gowden Gate. 

—A. S. Alexander 
•Oolden, 



1=57 



THE BALM OF NATURE,. 

When fairest hopes so highly cherished, 
Are beaten down and all have perished, 
And friends deceive yon whom you thought 
Were faithful and would fail you not 
If all thy future brightly planned 
Is darkened by fate's cruel hand, 
If crises come, thy courage tries 
And mounts of woe and trial rise. 
Go thou and make thou soul serene 
With nature's sweet and tranquil scene, 
Survey the clouds, her garments fair 
Made golden tinged by sunset's glare 
And note her lamps the moon and starg 
Moving along like chariot cars 
Hear her minstrels, the silvery brooks, 
Winding their way through shady nooks, 
Listen, sad heart, give ear to the singing 
Her glorious chorus, the birds are ringing, 
Give praise to Him, Omnipotent above 
For nature's gift of boundless love. 

— Z>. Eldon White. 



158 



TO THE. LAKE. 

In solitude I stand upon thy shore, 
And over powering awe doth fill my breast;, 
As in thy surging billows ne'er at rest. 
I read of mysteries great in nature's lore. 
The laughing moon reflects her silver light 
Upon thy crested waves, whose music sweet 
In soothing strains, I hear as at my feet 
They break in friendly voices on the night. 
A song as full of melody they sing. 
Thus calming down his troubled spirit wild. 
So love's sweet messages home they bring. 
Thus nature soothes and calms the troubled breast, 
And brings the weary soul sweet peace and rest. 

— Seward Gillespie. 



\m 



TE,MPTED. 

A ragged, barefoot, whistling boy, 
An active study in brown, 
Trod merrily the dnsty Yv?ij 
That leads from home to town. 

The dust lay deep along the road, 

It oozed between his toes ; 

And, circling round in smoke-like clouds, 

Lay gently on his clothes. 

The tattered suit, his feet, his face, 
Alike were turned to gray ; 
A lock of hair stuck through his hat 
Like a wisp of last year's hay. 

The sun burned hot in a summer sky; 
His arms hung listless down; 
The way — it see^^ed eternal long 
As he criidged from home to town. 

He reached the bridge below the dam ; 
He stopped and looked him down 
Into the cool where the minnows lay, — 
They never went to town. 

What pleasant lives the fishes lead ; 

On a red-hot summer day 

They lie in the shade of a dank old bridge, 

And sleep the day away. 



Tempted. 

For a time he stood ; and then he sat, 
Dabbling: his toes in the brook. 
He thought of the swimming above the dam, 
And followed his thoughts with a look. 

x\nd as Saint Augustine has said : — 
We doubt him not at all. — 
The downward course of man is thus: 
Look, picture, fascination, fall. 

And so with this poor erring youth, 
A picture followed the look ; 
The fascination followed in time; 
The youth — he followed the brook. 

The last I saw of this wayward lad, 

He had cleared at a bound the wall, 

And the last I heard of his downward course 

Was the liquid splash of his fall. 

— Albert D, Sanders, fr 



161 



THE HERO=SPIRIT NEEDE.D. 

The patriot oft recurs to earlier days, 
To show how heroes battled on the field; 

And history tells how martrys 'mid the blaze 
Unshaken stood though offered all to yield. 

A moral conflict's on, the foe is fierce, 
Noon is already past, the eve draws on 

Who'll be the man t' essay the line to pierce, 
Nor cease the struggle till the victory's won? 

The world is calling loud for heroes now, 
For worthy children of illustrious sires. 

Up! Up! prefer to die than weakly bow 
To other than the eternal truth inspires. 

^G. D. Cleworth 



162 



SUNDAY MORNING. 

The storm has passed; the campus is alone. 
The halls stand gray 'neath hanging eaves of snoWi 
Amid the trees with laden boughs bent low. 
The patriarch oak whose limbs so stiff have grown 
For many a year, such burden has not known. 
The rising sun lights up the gelid glow 
Of myriad crystals round, above, below : 
A light aurora in a northern zone. 
And yonder, tempest-tost, the billows sweep; 
And waves o'er topping waves, with muffled roar, 
Are dashed against the frozen parapet, 
Which by their fury they the higher heap, 
And bind in mountain chain of ice the shore. 
Below is power, above is beauty set. 

—B. B. Bobb. 



IM 



VOICES FROM THE SHORE.. 

Have you heard the gentle singing, 
The sweet, gentle, mystic sighing, 

The low voices of the night time, 
On the shores of Michigan? 

I have heard those whisp'ring voices, 
Those sweet callings from the leaf-depths, 

Those soft murmurs from the forest ; — 
And they tell me only joy 

As the accents of a lover. 

Thrill the soul of his beloved. 
Causing her to watch and wait him. 

Where they of ten-times have met; 

So these voices thrill my spirit, 
Gall me up from out the darkness, 

Speak to me of things not earthly, 
Tell me of the way divine. 

And for this I thank you, voices, 
Whispers from the grass and oak-leaves, 

Murmurs from the gentle night- wind. 
On the shores of Michigan. 

— -James P. JRawson. 



164 



TO THE, WAVES. 

O white -capped waves ! how many years 

Have you beat on the shore? 
How many ages shall it be 

Until you beat no more? 
You roar and roar through long, long days, 

Untiring, ceasing never. 
Men live and live ; but thej must die — 

You dash and dash forever. 

The crested waves, majestic waves, 

That curl upon the shore. 
You are the same, same rushing waves 

You were in days of yore. 
While in his soul man e'er shall live, 

His state shall ever rise. 
To all perfection he shall come, 

In worlds beyond the skies. 

— J. E. Smiley. 



165 



THE, NOBLE RED MAN. 

Upon his painted pedestal 

The noble red man stands, 
His wooden face as bright a hue 

As are his wooden hands. 
Some fine cigars he offers those 

Who pass along the walk, 
In his other hand, behind his back, 

He holds his tomahawk. 

Upon his mercenary trade 

His mind can never stay, 
His thoughts are of the hair-dresser's 

That stands across the way ; 
For in that shop there are displayed 

Wigs, in a beauteous show, 
And he thinks of them upon his belt, 

All hanging in a row. 

And so he gazes out beyond 

The heads of passers-by. 
And gloats over those long-haired scalps, 

And sometimes will he try 
To tear himself from off his place, 

Will strain with all his might, 
But the mean old nails in the stupid box 

They cruelly hold him tight. 



166 



The Noble Red Man. 

Does the cigar man ever know 

The passions strong and brave 
That heave within the noble breast 

Of his unwilling slave? 
What fear would strike the hair dresser 

If she should ever see 
The look in the red Indian's eyes 

As he struggles to be free ! 

— Katharine MacHarg 



167 



IN BRIDAL WHITE,. 

beautiful world in white ! 
The same that only yesternight 
Wag. clad in gown of sombre brown, 
Which trailed its dusky lengths adown 
The paths of night — this world in white. 
In bridal white, now greets my sight. 
Last night no gems of filmy lace 

Lent to her dress their dainty grace ; 
But now, it seems not all her mines 
Could yield the diamond dust that shines 
O'er her fair robe of spotless white. 
While, sparkling in the bright sunlight, 
Great sprays of gems seen here and there 
Meant to loop up her robe and hair ; 
And lace like hers would priceless be 
In any land, by any sea. 

1 look and look with eager eyes, 
While thanking her for their surprise 
And wonder if she wrought all night 
Upon this robe of spotless white, 
And if in fairy, crystal bowers 

She plushed her wreath of snowwhite flowers. 

— Kate L. Cutler. 



168 



RE,VERIE. 

Like the patter of cool sweet raindrops, 

Caught on the upturned brow, 
Is the sound of a voice nigh forgotten 

That seems to speak to me now. 

In the glow of the open fire-place 

I can see the face so dear. 
Of her who again bends over me, 

And these are the words I hear : 

"In this life now appearing all sunshine 
Is a part, and a heavy part, too. 

Which is waiting for you, my dear one. 
No one can bear it but you. 

"And yet this I would have you remember: 
There's a work in tliis world for you 

Which you can do very much better 
Than any one else can do. ' ' 

And I muse on the truth she has uttered, 

Oh how many try hard in vain 
To blind the eyes to the only place 

God planned for them to attain ! 

— Jessie E. Ross. 



169 



ON THE PIER. 

Oh, how like to human passions is the great 

lake's surface dear, 
As it stretches out before us, while we stand 

upon the pier ! 

See how placid is the water! Scarce a ripple 

can be seen. 
And sweet peace dwells in the bosom where great 

tempests once have been. 

See it sparkle ! See it shimmer — why, it smiles 

upon us ! You 
Would not think a great emotion ever shook this 

water blue. 

Oft I've heard it speak in anger, seen it smiling 
as today. 

And I've heard its wavelets chipping in the wave- 
lets' mocking way. 

I have seen it bathed in colors ; green and gold 

and blue and red, 
With the fairest tints reflected from the heavens 

overhead — 

And yet I've heard it howling many a night, and 

its wild roar 
Seemed to urge the storm to fury all along the 

sandy shore. 



170 



On the Pier 

And I've watched the mad sea raging, with a 

froth upon its crest 
Till it seemed that naught but hatred had a home 

within its breast. 

And at times I've heard it moaning, and its 

wail and sobbing cries 
Filled my heart with dark misgivings — brought a 

dimness to my eyes — 

For it seemed to know the sorrow, and to feel the 

bitter grief 
Of a soul that hopes no longer, and no longer seeki 

relief. 

I have seen the black fog gather, heard the 

signal's dismal roar, 
And my life has felt as barren as the sands along 

the shore. 

Then again I've heard it singing, such a sweet 

and tranquil song, 
That its melody has calmed me as I walked the 

beach along. 

Calmed the rebel heart within me, drove my 

rebel thoughts away— 
Till my tears of deep contrition mingled with 

the wavelet's spray — 

Till the sobbing, sighing ripples seemed to lob 

and sigh no more — 
Till the sunlight kissed the pebbles all along the 

sandy shore. 

in 



On the Pier. 

Till the the air grew soft and ualmy, till the 

heaven smiled above— 
Till the world was filled with music and my soul 

was filled with love. 

For I felt the Past was speaking from across 

another sea, 
And the cooling wave brought back a mother' 

lullaby. 

Oh, how like to human passion is the great lake's 

surface, dear, 

As it stretches out before us, while we stand 

upon the pier. 

•—John J. Flinn. 



WL 



THE ASSAYS THERE WILL AI,L BE. TRUE,. 

Jim Leonard stood — his pick and spade 

With ponoho tied together — 
Beside the grave where now is laid 

From the world he could not weather, 
His pard; and it was cold and drear 

In the camp of Twilight Canyon, 
For he was dead that for "ten year" 

Had been his boon companion. 

The trail seemed lonely now to climb, 

The drills and anvils weighty : 
He felt that age was marking time 

Upon his brow at eigrhty ; 
Now bleaker looked his prospect hole 

Than curtains dark as Kedar, 
And, like the wail of a tortured soul, 

The winds sighed in the cedar. 

At last he spoke as though in prayer. 

Or sadness broken-hearted, 
And these the words he muttered there, 

Addressed to the departed : 

"Old pard, you're gone, and I'm alone; 

But when the winds are sighin', 
I seem to hear the parting tone 

I heard when you were dyin'. 



178 



The Assays There Will All Be True. 

"The waters down the canons pour. 

Like spirits vengeance wreckin', 
And in the rattlin' thunder's roar, 

I think I hear you speakin' ; 
And when at night I hear the slide, 

And trees and boulders fallin', 
I'm thinkin', pard, you're by my side, 

Or for me you are callin'. 

"But now I'm gettin' tired of life, 

It grows more sad and weary; 
The days are full of toil and strife. 

The silent nights are dreary ; 
And, pard, I soon will climb the trail 

That starts where peaks are endin' 
And turnouts there we'll never hail, 

"We meet no packs descendin', 

"We'll climb the mountain sides no more, 
By night and day prospectin' ; 

We'll file a claim for t'other shore, 
, And wait the resurrectin' ; 

An' if we never panned out here 
What we have been expectin', 

We'll make our trail a title clear 
To callin' and electin'. 

"My shift will soon be over, pard,' 

I'll soon be done a-stoppin' ; 
We'll all be under cover, pard. 

Where drifts are never slopin'. 
The levels all are on one base, 

No upper shifts a-blastin' ; 



174 



The Assays There Will All Be True. 

The tunnels all meet in one place, 
The chamber's everlastin'. 

"The assays there will all be true, 

Accordin' to our sample; 
And when the mill runs are all through, 

They'll show us this example: 
That if we work the jig below 

By 'saltin' ' 'and deceivin', 
That up there, pard, there is no show 

To cover and get even. 

"And when the sortin's all been done 

And ready for the grindin' 
I trust, old pard, 'high number one,' 

They'll most of us be findin', 
For concentration methods, pard. 

They've never up there boasted; 
But down the chute low grade and hard 

Is crushed and dumped and roasted. 

"But, pard, if we have rustled square, 

And never practiced jumpin' 
The claims wherein we had no shares, 

We needn't fear the dumpin' ; 
For I believe that who has made 

The mountain, has no failin's. 
And he can find a better trade 

Than burniti' up the tailiti's.^^ 

— P. L. McKinnie. 



176 



ETERNITY. 

Eternity, Eternity ! ! 
Thou art a great and boundless sea; " 
An ocean huge without a shore, 
Thy waves roll on forevermore. 

Beginning, thou didst never see, 
And ending, there is none to thee. 
From everlasting thou didst flow. 
To everlasting thou wilt go. 

No human mind can comprehend 
Thy vast expanse — without an end. 
Thou art from every measure free; 
No figures large can limit thee. 

Thou hast not limit or no goal, 

No boundary does thy flight control. 

Bewildered must the mind remain, 

That would thy wondrous course explain. 

But on thy ever-flowing tide 
Shall my immortal soul abide 
My being never will be past 
As long as thou thyself dost last. 

But O my soul, where wilt thou be 
Throughout this long eternity ; 
Shall I with all the evil dwell . 
In anguish that no tongue can tell? 



176 



Erternity. 

Or shall I with the good and pure, 
Eternal blessedness secure? 
My soul, spare thou no toil nor pain 
Eternal life to seek and gain. 

- — James D. Fry. 



m 



A DAY IN THE COUNTRY, 

I love this land of growing wealth, 
These fields of waving grain, 

The pleasant zephyrs wafting health 
That dance o'er hill and plain. 

They reap in gladness as they sing 
The harvest of the flowers, 

While odors rare to me they bring 
To bless mine idle hours. 

I love the birds that skim the air, 

Or sing in leafy sheen ; 
I love the brooks that murmur by, 

And make the wild wood queen. 

I love the lazy lowing kine 

That doze by glassy pool, 
The colts that skip in frisky line 

Like boys let loose from school. 

I love to hear the plowman's song, 
The happy school-girl's trills; 

The push and hum of working throng 
As each his task fulfills. 

No other land hath homes so pure, 
With hearts so warm and free ; 

No other land such boundless store 
To bless her husbandry. 

'Tis dear to me, this land is free, 
O'er mountain, vale and plain. 

With equal rights from sea to sea. 
No slave to shake his chain. 

178 



A Day in the Country. 

Our navy ne'er hath known defeat, 
Where e'er our ships would go; 

Our army ne'er hath beat retreat 
Before a victor foe. 

Our flag is fear'd, our name rever'd 
Throughout the world's domain. 

Our men of thought the way have clear 'd 
For Truth and Peace to reign. 

Our heroes rest forever blest 

By all from shore to shore ; 
Old Glory waves above their graves. 

And shall forever more. 

— E. S. Wee den. 



179 



LINES TO THE. FRINGED GENTIAN. 

Flower of the poets, I greet thee! 

Last of thy beautiful race, 
I waken with welcome to meet thee, 

Friend of my earlier days. 
Why closest thine eye, dewy blossom? 

Rouse, brush from thee, t-^^ars of the night- 
The stars have gone out in the ether, 

And the day-king is up in his might. 

Flower of the poets I greet thee 1 

Last of thy beautiful race, 
I waken with welcome to greet thee 
Friend of my earlier days. 
Ha ! open thine eye, dewy blossom, 

The world is not always so cold ; 
Some hearts glow with kindly emotions, 

Aye; treasures of goodness unfold. 

Flower of the poets, I greet thee ! 

Last of thy beautiful race, 
I waken with welcome to meet thee, 

Friend of my earlier days. 
Thou teachest a lesson fair blossom, 

For the silent ones, sad and alone ; 
Whose sunshine is dim as September, 

Whose dwelling place drear as thine own. 
— Elizabeth E. Marcy. 



180 



NE,MESIS. 

A truth there is, that God to us hath shown, 

That nothing here on earth is done in vain ; 

That as we sow, so we shall reap again ; 

That nothing good or evil is alone. 

And God has written it in tree and stone ; 

He has declared it in the falling rain, 

To us it may bring joy, it may bring pain ; 

But nothing can its consequence disown. 

We see it in the laws of all mankind ; 

We hear it in the music of the ri]l; 

We know it by the conscience God has given ; 

We read it on the tables of the mind. 

The deed returns upon the doer still ; 

As true on earth, so true it is in heaven. 

— lo Barnes, 



181 



THE CHILDLESS. 

"I wonder why I shed those tears 
When they laid my little dead child away ? 

After the lapse of wearying years 
I am glad that I sit alone today ; 

I can hear his laugh and his glad wild shout, 
I can see him still as he ran about, 

And I know the prayer he used to say. 

' ' I hold his picture to my face 

And I fancy I feel his hand again 
As it creeps into mine, and he takes his place 

On my knee, as he did in the fair days when 
The world and the fates were kind to me. 

And the songs I heard were but songs of glee, 
And I stirred the envy of other men. 

"His days were only days of joy, 
Happy, he shouted the hours away ; 

He was glad with the glee of a careless boy 
He laughed as only the innocent may ; 

He was never doomed to wearily fret, 
He never looked back with vain regret 

At the close of a sorrowful day. 

"I keep the little clothes he wore, 
I treasure the shoes that encased his feet. 



182 



The Childless. 

The way was smooth that he traveled o'er, 
The flowers that bloomed at its sides were sweet ; 

The winds that blew through his curly hair 
Had blown out of peaceful realms and fair — 

There were no grim foes that he had to meet. 

* ' I wonder why I shed those tears 

When they crossed his hands and laid him away? 
After the lapse of wearying years 

I am glad that I toil alone today I 
He knew life's gladness, but not its woe, 

And I have his memory and I know 
The sweet little prayer he used to say." 

—S. E. Kiser. 



183 



WHITE, WINGED MESSE.NGERS. 

Far o'er the desolate waste of sea 

There gleamed an arch of rosy light ; 
Beneath the rainbow's tints there flashed 

At day's dawn, glittering wings of white, 
A spotless dove with a single leaf, 

The joyous signs that the flooded earth 
Had emerged from the sleep of a watery grave 

To thrill with new life since the rainbow's birth. 

High o'er the forest, leafless and bare, 

There bends a dome of April sky, 
Through the hush of the desolate wood there 
sounds 

The wings of the South Wind rustling by, 
Bringing the green to the gray old fir, 

Thrilling the heart of the great oak tree, 
Setting the violets all astir 

With a promise of blossoms to be. 

Down through the arch of coming Time 

We see the glint of angel's wings; 
A branch of the Tree of Life he bears, 

And a glad new song to earth he sings : 
"Rejoice and be glad, ye children of men, 

He has set his rainbow vow in the skies. 
He hath called the forest to life again. 

Ye shall wake and live in Paradise. ' ' 

—Nelly C. Danely, 



184 



WHO SHALL BE, KING? 

At first came Faith, with earnest eyes, 

And thoughts that fain would pierce the skies 

Then Knowledge came and looked about, 

And put the sweet child Faith to rout. 

But when at last Wisdom appears. 

That wise old sage, of many years. 

He smilingly on both looks down, 

Yet neither one receives the crown, 

For, scarcely noticed, in and out, 

A tiny fay has flitted about : 

All things rejoice where he has been, 

Love surely shall be crowned as king. 

— Henrietta Graves. 



185 



GIPSY LULLABY. 

Rest, my little fledgling, close cradled on my arm ; 
Nothing near the greenwood tree breathes to do 

thee harm. 
Weary of the mossy bank, weary of the sun, 
Droop thy tangled head and sleep, laughing 
lucky one. 

For the wind a dream will bring, 
While the brook sings ever low, 
And the fairy bells shall ring, 
And the rainbow fountains flow, 
Bylo, my baby brown, bylo. 

Sleep, my brier rosebud : all the west goes gray ; 

In the fold the sheep are penned ; now the shep- 
herds play 

On their pipes a merry tune for the lassies' feet ; 

From the starlit pasture land fluting echoes fleet. 
Prompt the wind a dream to bring, 
While the brook sings ever low; 
Now the fairy bells shall ring. 
Now the rainbow fountains flow, 
Bylo, my baby brown, bylo. 

Slumber in my scarlet cloak, for the night comes 

chill. 
Hush 1 Four-footed forest friends browsing pass. 

Lie stilU 



186 



Gipsy Lullaby, 

Love for thee the stars forecast, love and gold 

and ease 
Shut thine eyes (unjust one, thou art hard to 

please ! ) 

Till the wind a dream shall bring, 
While the brook sings ever low, 
Till the fairy bells shall ring. 
Till the rainbow fountains flow. 
Bylo, my baby brown, bylo. 

Sleep, to be abroad at dawn, with the bird and bee, 
Kindred by thy birthday bond — Freedom's ecstasy. 
Nursling of the open glade, hedge-born, gay and 

wild. 
Round the world I'll follow thee, so then sleep, 
my child, 

That the wind a dream may bring, 
While the brook sings ever low. 
And the fairy bells shall ring, 
And the rainbow fountains flow, 
Bylo, my baby brown, by-lo. 

—Lulu W, Mitchell. 



187 



THE, COMPLAINT OF COPHETUA « 

*'Ah, who am I to flout at Love 

That in his toils am so ensnared — 
Around whose heart his web is wove? 

Ah ! I by Love have illy fared ! 

Shall I whose people have despaired 
Of living till my marriage day — 

Shall I be with a beggar paired?" 
So mourned the King Oophetua. 

"How stately did she stand apart 

While others scrambled for the gold 1 
Wo worth the day ! She snatched my heart 

From out my breast, hence icy cold. 

Ah, that she had been coarse or bold ! 
My heart had then not gone astray — 

I were not as a beggar soldi" 
So mourned the King Oophetua. 

"Nature exulted at her birth, 

Though wealth to grace her life did scorn ; 
Her beauty is the joy of earth, 

And shames the vaunted glow of morn ; 
Her form sways like the wind-blown corn, 

Her locks are night, her brow like day— 
But ah ! she is a beggar born, ' ' 

So mourned the King Oophetua. 



188 



The Complaint of Cophetua' 

Alas i I yield me to my fate. 

My love I can no more gainsay. 
The beggar maid shall be my mate. ' ' 

So mourned the King Oophetua. 

— Miriam Elizabeth Prindle. 



WHEN MY SHIP COMES HOME.. 

When all my ships come home from sea, 
I'll build a stately pile for thee ; 
I'll purchase parks and wide domains, 
I'll scour the sky, I'll sweep the plains 
To grant thy slightest wish to thee ; 
When all my ships come home from sea. 

When all my ships come home to me, 
I'll breathe a message sweet to thee, 
A message couched in words so dear 
Thy heart shall beat when thou dost hear. 
Our doubts and fears will turn and flee, 
When all my ships come home to me. 

^-Thomas Knott, 



190 



FKIZKDS. 

The rose unfolds the sweetness of its heart, 
And flings its fragrance forth with careless joy. 
It knows no stint, nor any miser's greed, 
But gives its sweetness and its loveliness 
To all the world, and every passerby 
Rejoices in its beauty and perfume, 
Life seems to all a sweeter, brighter thing 
Because the rose has bloomed. 

I have a friend, who, like the lovely rose, 
Sheds over all the sweetness of her charm, 
The fragrance of a loving tender heart 
A joyous heart that knows no thought of harm. 
You need not pluck the rose to love its sweets, 
Nor call its beauty yours to hold it dear. 
The world's a sweeter place that she's alive 
And life's a dearer thing that she is here. 

The wine within the slender, shining glass, 
Sparkles and shakes into a thousand gems. 
And bubbles up like laughter to the lips. 
As clear as crystal, full of mystic charm, 
And warm with life and with the melting kiss 
Of summer sun upon the purple grape. 
But drink this nectar of Elysian gods 
And every cloud that dims your sky, 
Shines out with gleam of irrediscent hope. 



191 



Friends. 

I have a friend to whom, when I am sad, 
I go, and drink with ever fresh delight, 
The nectar she alone can pour for me. 
A sip of her intoxicating mirth, 
The sparkle of her never bitter wit, 
The bubbling joy that wells within her eyes 
Are wine unto my soul, and as I quaff, 
My troubles melt within her happy laugh. 

The mountain lifts its grand majestic self 
Up toward high heaven, and the' it seek the stars 
Spurns not the lowly earth from whence it sprang, 
Bat calmy rears its head among the clouds 
And breathes the rarer, purer air above. 
Clouds come and go. The snows of winter 
Melt into the floods of spring. Flowers bloom 

and fade 
And still the everlasting mountain stands 
Unchanging and unchanged. 

I^know a friend whose spirit lifts itself 
Above the sordid cares and frets of earth, 
Who breathes the purer air among the clouds 
And changes not as seasons come and go. 
And tho' I travel over half the world, 
And know a thousand changes in myself, 
Unchanging as the mountain there would be 
The love my steadfast friend would hold for me. 

I could not choose which one the dearest is, 
Nor wish them all to seem alike to me, 



192 



Friends. 

But drink the sweetness that each friendship 

holds 

And leave the dregs, if bitter dregs there be. 

Had I one wish to wish for ail my life, 

To wish one gift, and let the others go, 

The chance to fill my life with that delight 

Which seemed the dearest. Could I choose it so 

I would not hesitate, nor halt in choice, 

Nor weigh what other gift would make amends 

Of all the gifts to happy mortals given, 

God give me friends. 

— Alice C, D, Riley, 



193 



HUNTING SONG. 

Once more the air is sharp and fine, 

For Boreas is blowing, 
And in the wood, like ruddy wine, 
The holly -bush is glowing. 

The hunter's horn 

Salutes the morn 
From hi 11 -top and from valley 

Then up, away! 

At break of day 
Behind the chase we'll rally. 

How eagerly the baying hound 

Swings down the misty hollows! 
And o'er the hedges with a bound 
The horseman swiftly follows. 
With smoking breath 
O'er hill and heath 
We chase the fleeing quarry ; 
Then home again 
Through field and fen 
A strapping haunch we'll carry. 

The torches flare throughout the hall, 
And bright the log is burning, 

And o'er the coals, to welcome all, 
The hissing spit is turning . 
So while we rest, 



194 



Hunting Song. 

With song and jest, 
Around the board we'll Tarry; 

A buxom lass 

To fill the glass 
And all is snug and merry. 

— C. H. Haile. 



195 



THE BRYANT CIRCLE. 

We bear his name who mid the strife 

Sought as life's dearest prize 
The white rose of a blameless life, 

The red of sacrifice. 
May we be true as he was true, 

And iiind as he was kind ; 
For heart needs heart the ages through, 

No less than mind needs mind. 

And as we meet in serious mood, 

The search for truth to share. 
Our striving blinds us, as by blood, 

To him whose name we bear. 
So let us e'er seek wisdom true, 

And love, whose power sustains; 
The heart thus stayed is sure to do 

A work that aye remains. 

— Airs. M. C. Brandon. 



196 



LIFER'S WINDOWS. 

I stood in life's east windows, 

To watch the bright sun rise. 
With awe looking out on Wonderland 

From half-dazed, questioning eyes ; 
Anon my glance grew bolder : 

As the sun rose high o'erhead, 
I, proud as the bird in his rock-bound nest, 

Forth from my window sped. 

I stand in life's south windows. 

In the glare of full- orbed day, 
Lline eyes are bold to watch the rest 

Toil over the rugged way. 
And the sun mounts higher and higher 

As the days rush scurrying by ; 
Mid the dust of march, though travel-stained, 

I can yet look up to the sky. 

And on to the end of life's daytime, 

Though weary and sometimes faint, 
I shall press ahead in the journey 

Without murmur or complaint. 
For I know that at last comes the evening, 

When the day is folded by, 
I shall stand at life's west windows 

And look out upon the sky. 

— Emeline Daggett Barvey. 



197 



A ME£TING. 

*'I wonder," he thought, as he passed her 
"With paint on her cheeks, "if she knows 

That her clothes and her manner proclaim 

To all who behold her the shame 
That she carries wherever she goes?" 

"I wonder," he thought, as he watched her 
Pass on with the crowd in the street, 

"If I had been patient and kind 

I might at my door, tonight, find 
Her waiting still pure and still sweet? 

He thought of a girl who was stainless, 
And he thought of a glad autumn night, 

When she gave him her promise and laid 

Her face on his breast, unafraid. 
And he looked — she had passed out of sight. 

Men bowed with respect as they passed him, 

There was pride in the poise of his head ; 
But before him two faces appeared, 
One pure and one brazen and smeared — 
And down in his heart there was dread. 

—S. E. Kiser. 



166 



PERSICAS ODI. 

(Horati Carminum. I, 38.) 
I hate all Persian luxury ; 
Wreaths wound with linden please not me, 
My lad, nor seek them anxiously 

Where the late roses blow. 
I love with myrtle plain to twine 
My brows, and it as well suits thine, 
My slave, when 'neath the trellised vine 

The sparkling wine doth flow. 

— Miriam Elisabeth Prindle, 



199 



THE BANK ROBBER. 

Little Rowland saved his pennies^ 

Put them all away ; 
In a little iron bank he 

Dropped them day by day. 
Hope was in the heart of Rowland, 

Hope of future joys 
When he'd have a hundred cents to 

Squander with the boys. 
One day little Rowland's mother 

Needed change and found 
Little Rowland's iron bank, and 

Turned a screw around; 
Out fell all the pennies given 

To her frugal son, 
And without a single pang she 

Took them every one. . . . 
Little Rowland found his looted 

Bank upon the floor — 
All the halls reverberated 

With his mournful roar. 
There's a change in little Rowland, 

Hope that once flamfd high 
In his breast has ceased to flicker. 

He has let it die. « . . 
Yesterday he sadly murmured: 

"Banks is frauds— when I 



200 



The Bank Robber. 

Get a penny now I spend it — 

Run right out and buy- 
Cakes or chocolates or something, 

'Cause when people go 
Savin' up to have a racket 

After while, you know, 
Some one else has all the fun and 

You don't get a show." 

— S. E. Kiser, 



aoi 



THREE REVERIES. 

I sit and smoke I 

And, in the upward curling rings, 

I see a lovely smiling face — 
The sweetest of all mortal things, 
The fairest of the human race — 
'Tie sweet to see the face divine. 
To dream that some day she'll be mine. 

And sit and smoke. 

I sit and mope ! 

And in my eye is seen a tear, 

For yesterday I called to see 
This maiden whom I love so dear 
And asked her if she'd marry me. 
She scorned the lasting love that I 
Had offered her and that is why 

I sit and mope. 

I sit and smoke ! 

And still I see that lovely face. 

She's married now; alas, 'tis true. 
The maid I thought so full of grace 
Her husband found to be a shrew, 
I picture to myself his scrape, 
I thank the Lord for my escape — 

And sit and smoke. 
— James Melville, Jr. 



202 



AN IRISH LULLABY. 

The sun, low is shining in billows of red, 
The shadows grow long at the trees overhead, 
The moon, now, springs up from his watery bed. 

So list to the crone 

Of your auld mither's rune; 

An' sleep machree. 

My colleen wee. 

Funarrah growls low as he roams through the 

glen, 
How weird is the banshees' shrill call in the fen, 
And soft is the tread of the dead, murdered men. 

So list to the crone 

Of your mither's rune ; 

An' sleep machree, 

My colleen wee. 

The land of the Shamrock is silent at rest. 
An' safely you lie on your own mither's breast. 
All safe in the care of our sweet Mary blest. 

So list to the crone 

Of your old mither's rune; 

An* sleep machree, 

My colleen wee. 

Harold W.Burke. 



308 



JUST FOR FUN. 

Two lads strolled down the street one day, 

Just for fun ; 
There they chanced to meet one day, 

Just for fun, 
Two lassies trim and neat one day, 

Walking in the sun. 

The wavelets twinkled bright one day, 

In the sun, 
The lassies smiled so sweet one day. 

In the sun. 
The boys the girls did greet one day, 

'A Maying in the sun. 

In a boat they climbed one day, 

Just for fun, 
While the school-bell chimed one day 

In the sun. 
Each lassie changed her mind one day, 

In the sun for fun. 

The lads did ply their art that day. 

In the sun. 
For each had lost his heart that day, 

In the sun. 
The lassies played their part that day 

'A boating in the sun. 



S04 



Just fvr Fun. 

Ah well ! They live in flats today, 

Not in fun. 
The boys, they toil and sweat today, 

In the sun. 
The girls all but regret today 

What they have done. 

— Frank H. West. 



THEIR SUITS, 

With sweating brow and heated face. 
With drooping collar, little grace, 

And aches acute. 
Before he called upon the maid, 
And ere her heart and hand he prayed, 

He pressed his suit. 

Upon his knees before her feet, 

In honeyed words, with gestures meet, 

The while the mute 
But moneyed maid his tortures eyed, 
Refusing still to be his bride. 

He pressed his suit. 

When moneyed maids are won at last 
By men who play the loose and fast 

To win repute, 
They soon must save to make ends meet, 
And so with groans and weary feet 

She pressed his suit. 

But soon in court before the wig 
And bench of justice stood the prig, 

Nor could refute 
The charge that augured future woe, 
For he'd no money made, and so 

She pressed her suit. 

— Grace E. S human. 



206 



SKATING SONG. 

With a push and a swing— a bold, free swing, 
As if we were sped on Mercurial wing. 
For nothing can keener pleasure bring 

Than skating, 
Our every care to the breezes we fling; 
Our joyous laughter makes heaven ring ; 
And with melody timed to our feet, we sing 

A happy song, while skating. 

With a sweep and a glide— a graceful glide, 
Now farther apart, now side by side. 
Before the face of the wind we ride, 

A skating. 
A slip and a slide— an easy slide. 
As over the mirror of ice so wide 
We move along like mighty tide, 

And sing our song of skating. 

Let us swing and sway, with a gentle sway, 

In an easy and rythmical way, 

And drink in the health of the waning day. 

While skating, 
Till the sun has taken his light away, 
And with happy hearts and light and gay, 
Our votive offering of praise we lay 

At the shrine of the goddess of skating. 

— Edna Branson. 



207 



TO A COLORADO MOUNTAIN STRE,AM. 

At the day-break sounding, 

Tumbling to the sea, 
Down sheer courses bounding. 

Yonder stream in glee, 
In the sunlight flushing, 

Crimsoned all in red, 
Eagerly is rushing 

O'er his silvery bed. 

From the mountains coming, 

Under beetling crag, 
All the glad day humming, 

Streams that never lag. 
Blithesome is his singing, 

Restless is his smile ; 
Jubilantly flinging 

High his spray the while 1 

Now, in moonlight beaming, 

Sweet and low he trills 
Thro' dark shadows gleaming. 

Silently he thrills ; 
Nature's soul with gladness, 

Till his wavelets hoar 
In this peaceful sadness 

Fall asleep once more. 

— Robert Jaines Campbell. 



ao8 



A RACE. 

Swiftly ! 

He is gaialjag, 

His pace increases fast ; 
Swiftly ! 

He is feigning — 

That he may win at last. 

Faster I 

Strength is going, 

Bat I must reach the goal. 
Faster ! 
Hope is growing 

Quickly dim within my soul. 

Slowly ! 

I am feeling 

The torture of defeat. 
Slowly ! 

I am stealing 

Alone along the street. 

— Arthur Rarig 



309 



THE, B'LOON=MAN. 

B'loon-man came to town this mornin', 
Makin' an awful great big hornin', 
Floatin' beauties by a thread, 

Dark an' light, 

Red an' white. 
Bobbin' round his stupid head. 

B 'loon-man's mighty queer old feller, 

Only wants to be a seller, 

B 'loons don't seem to his dull eye. 

Shade an' sheen, 

Blue an' green, 
Bits of lull an' sea an' sky. 

'F I was a b'loon-man I'd quit hustlin', 
Lay me down where leaves was rustlin, ' 
Watch the sunlight glintin' through, 

Shade an' shine, 

Yellow 'n' wine, 
B' loons all sparklin' like the dew, 

Watch 'em tuggin' at their tyin, ' 
Play they's airships I could fly in. 
Wonder where they'd take me to, 

Dark an' light, 

Red an' white, 
'F I's a b'loon-man, that's what I'd do. 

— Grace E^ S human. 



210 



AN OLD MAN'S DR£,AM. 

An old man sits in an easy chair 

Before the fitful fire's glow, 
The years have faded white his hair; 

His head upon his breast hangs low ; 
A gentle smile o'erspreads his face, 

"Who knows what thoughts now haunt hii brain 1 
Who knows to what far distant place 

His fancy takes him back again? 

Perhaps once more in youthful ways. 

E'er manhood claimed him from a boy, 
He lives those bright and happy days. 

And feels again a childish joy; 
It may be some forgotten scene 

Of youthful triumph come again — 
Of prowess on the village green, 

Or frolic in some shady glen. 

Perhaps he now recalls a night 

In summer time so bright and fair, 
And sees again the soft moon light 

Shimmer upon his sweetheart's hair; 
And speaks again the vows he spoke 

In that sweet hour of happiness. 
It may be they were never broke 

Since that far distant night to thii. 



211 



Ad Old Man's Dream. 

Perhaps 'tis not long vanished joys 

That cause that smile upon his face ; 
He may be glad because his boys 

Have followed in their father's pace. 
Perhaps he smiles because he knows 

His life has not been spent in vain. 
And now, in his old age, repose 

Will be his lot, instead of pain. 

It may be that he sees beyond 

The pale of these poor human shows — 
That some fair vision now has dawned 

Upon his mind, that brightly glows. 
Perhaps some friendly voice he hears, 

In words which but the soul can know, 
Some comrades of his early years. 

That sets his face with smiles aglow. 

— Eugene P. Monahan. 



212 



ST. MARK'S CHIMES. 

The morning chimes in sweetest strain, 
Tell me of joy and peace again, 
Tell me of love, complete with sacred air, 
And call all hearts to join in praise and prayer. 

With grateful heart, I bless the hour 
That tunes the music in that ivy tower. 
That breaks the spell of earthly care, 
And lifts the soul to join with saints in praise 
and prayer. 

How oft these chimes in future years, 
"Will break in memory on our ears ; 
With hallowed thought, in gladsome days, 
We joined with living hearts, in fervent prayer 
and praise. 

Our homes may change, each traveler pass away. 

O'er other hearts these chimes will hold their 

sway; 

In distant homes, in distant climes, 

Some hearts will long to hear again these sacred 

chimes. 

-"Andrew J. Brown. 



ai8 



TO AN OPAL. 

Fair opal, of the many-colored light, 
A spark of fire within a mist, thy beam 
Is softly shed. Again, thy beauties gleam 
As bits of azure from the heavens bright, 
With amber, pearl, and emerald hues bedight, 
So sensitive to all, thy colors seem, 
They change with every passing light. A dream 
Than thou, is not more fanciful at night. 
Fair opal, very like a soul thou art, 
Which, as it meets its share of joy or woe. 
Reflects to others every changing mood. 
Are not its passions like thy fiery heart? 
Thy colors, traits that all men know? 
Complete alone, like thee, 'tis pure, 'tis good. 

— Marion Holmes. 



214 



WISHES. 

Conld we stand on the border of Wishland, 
With the power to reach forth and choose, 
With a doubt would we not stand and falter 
As we thought of the things we must lose? 

God's bounties are like the vast ocean, 
From which, when we dip with full hands, 
There remain still the limitless waters. 
While our horde drips away in the sands ; 

Shall we ask Him to ward off misfortune — 
To shield us from evil's fell spell? 
To his infinite wisdom why pray thus, 
When we know that He doeth things well? 

If you knew you could have for the asking 
All the world, with it miserable pelf, 
Like the Savior upon the high mountain ; 
Would you dare to accept it yourself? 

Abnegation of self is a Spirit 

Whose ethereal breath is Love. 

That which came down on Him who in Jordan, 

Was crowned with a fluttering dove. 

'Tis the "Pearl of Great Price" that was promised 
Might I dip in God's ocean my hands, 
I would pray to retain this my great treasure, 
Though all else slipped away in the sands. 

315 



Wishes. 

This is ail, dear friends, I dare wish you ; 
When you reach out with your empty hands 
May it be yours to grasp this great treasure ; 
God forbid it escape in the sands ! 

— Albert F. Dean^ 



216 



AUTUMN LEAVES. 

See the trooping careless leaves 
As they rustle round the eaves 
Of yon ancient moss-grown manse ! 
How they bow and scrape and prance, 
Whirling, swirling, glide and glance 
In a merry elfin dance. 
Russet, brown and yellow-veined, 
Spotted, tawny, ruby-stained, 
Scarlet, crimson, flecked in gold, 
Decked in colors manifold — 
Gay-robed courtiers, all, are these. 
Flora's lackeys ere she flees. 

— F. E. Bindhammer, 



217 



AFTER THE. PLAY. 

The curtain down,— the last scene ended, - 

I moved mechanically away ; 
I seemed alone among the many. 

For I was thinking of the play. 

I followed where the others led me : 
At last we reached the street below. 

I thought of home, but reached instead 
A place I dimly seemed to know, 

I saw the crowd and heard the music ; 

The warm, sweet fragrance of the air 
Oome softly to me, yet, as dreaming, 

I seemed of these but half aware. 

For me the world was but a shadow,—- 
Blurred in the distance seemed its care 

A strange enchantment held me captive— 
To break its charm I did not dare. 

I saw the glory of a. vision — 
No picture of my dream more fair. 

How like some cunning fairies' magic 
It seemed, to see her sitting there. 

The light, diffusing softly downward. 

Was taken prisoner unaware. 
Entangled, formed a golden halo. 

Wrought from the splendor of her hair. 



218 



After the Play. 

He spied her, and came swiftly, smiling 
And hurrying through the passing throng ; 

He paused in silence, there beside her 
For whom he'd had to wait so long. 

She turned and smiling as she saw him 
Impatient waiting near her there, 

Her lips moved, and she softly whispered 
Some subtle message, faint and fair. 

He answered, leaning gently toward her ; 

There was a question in his eyes ; 
And yet, ere he had finished speaking, 

He seemed her answer to surmise. 

He left her then, but pausing, lingered 

As if indeed 'twere hard to go; 
He lifted from the table near her 

A glass, and then departed slow. 

I jealous? Why should he concern me? 

For him I did not even care 1 
'Twas in a restaurant one evening. 

And he, you know, a waiter there. 

— Harriet VV. Durham. 



ai9 



KEATS. 

Sweet bard, as one who needs must say adieu, 

And yet still lingereth, I recall the past. 

I've with Endymion been, seen Lamia cast 
The serpent's spell o'er Lycius till he drew 
Death from the contact. Isabella too, — 

At whose great grief mine eyes were overcast 

With tears in sorrow, and I stood aghast 
At the vile miscreants who both robbed and slew. 

But when I read that fragment of thy song 
By name Hyperion, I did feel as one 

Who for his nourishment hath hungered long. 
And is but half -appeased ere all is gone. 

Few were thy days, and like a requiem strong, 
A strain half -uttered when 'tis heard of none. 

—John T, Barker. 



220 



A STARTLING DISCOVE.RY, 

An old star-gazer with silvery hair 
On a long-legged stool was perched in the air, 
And resting his feet on a box labeled "SOAP," 
He silently gazed through his brass telescope. 

Then nodding his head in a quizzical way 
He snapped his long fingers, and whistled a tune, 
While his eye was skimming the thin milky-whey 
That was left by the "cow that jumped over the 
moon. " 

Soon turning his glass on the moon's silver face, 
In rapt contemplation he sat for a space, 
Then wildly exclaimed, "Well, I do declar' 
By the Roily Bolly Alice ! the's a woman up thar. 

"Now haven't I arg'ed for day after day 

That the moon was inhabited? (slapping his 

knees) 
For haven't I heard the astronomer say 
That the moon is only a monster green cheese? 

"But I doubt if it's green, as some people hold 
For sure as the world it's a million years old; 
But it must be inhabited, that much I know, 
If it's built like the cheese that we've got here 
below." 



221 



A Startling Discovery. 

Then gazing a moment, he said in surprise, 
"Why the gal's in the spot where the man used 

to be, 
And she holds up her hand to shelter her eyes, 
While she seems to be looking out over the sea; 

"And her long golden hair is aflout in the breeze, 
That, of course, must exhale from the depths of 

the cheese. ' ' 
But soon he exclaimed, "Well, by the Great 

Dipper ! 
I have it at last, she's in search of a skipper. " 

— G. G. Becknall. 



222 



A MOTHER'S LONGING. 

When bedtime comes and daily cares depart, 
Before I press my couch, in silence of the night 

I seek my darling's room, the thought within my 
heart, 
"I'd like to tuck my boy in bed tonight." 

The moonlight slanting o'er his empty bed 
Brings thoughts a mother's love can never speak 

How often by its beams I've watched his sleep in 
dread, 
And stooped to feel his breath upon my cheek. 

So soft and still his breathing came and went, 
His face so white and peaceful on the pillow lay. 

My mother fears were roused as over him I leant 
Lest God that night had taken him away. 

We see our children grow, with mingled joy an 
pain; 
We wish them to be men— 'tis natural and right— 
And yet we sigh for times that may not come 
again — 
The hour we tucked our darlings in at night. 

— Virginia C, Shaffer. 



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